


The Argonauts

by leslielol



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Past Sexual Abuse, Sexual Repression, Slow Build, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 102,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4814123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin accompany one another on a journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame my pal slashmyheartandhopetoporn for getting me into this fandom. _For shame._
> 
> This is very much a work-in-progress, and something I'm really anxious about sharing at all! Hopefully it's enjoyable. 
> 
> The Man from U.N.C.L.E belongs to its creators and no offense is intended with this nonsense.

They were in California, but not the sunny paradise Solo knew--or, indeed, the misbegotten hellhole of wealth and greed Kuryakin was expecting--but, instead, a quiet retreat in the shadows of imposing redwood trees. In the northern reaches of the state, the only human lives stirring were those in a nearby, secret research planetarium, its domed top recently infiltrated by none other than U.N.C.L.E’s newest spies. 

It was a simple mission--a task, really. It took a grand total of six hours to collect hidden bugs--Russian made, as it happened, so Solo was mindful to check any layabout shoes--as well as recover the man who planted them. The spy was tracked down a kilometer deep into the woods, testing the transmitter range of his devices. He was a young man, supposedly acting on his own accord--and Solo believed him, for no other reason than his weapon was left on the ground beside him, and Solo was able to kick it away with ease. He could say, now, that he’d once disarmed a man with nothing but his big toe. 

The spy knew Kuryakin for a Russian the moment he was collected, bound and gagged for easy transport. 

Kuryakin removed the gag, only to be spat at for his troubles. 

_“My name is Sergey Grishin. I do this for the good of my nation, my comrades. I have no keeper, only my consciousness.”_

It was all he could say--all he'd practiced saying, rather. He spoke and understood little else. 

His claims did not hold when CIA officials came to retrieve him, descending upon the wood like spirits, the brights on their two identical Chevys alighting their path. The four of them were dressed in ill-fitting suits and shined shoes while Kuryakin and Solo donned similarly plain blue jumpers over undershirts--janitors’ garb for those who didn’t spare a second look. Solo's was finely tailored, naturally, and Kuryakin's a hair short in the leg. 

The agents informed the lot that the spy would not be prosecuted for his crimes here but, instead, was headed back to Russia. When a sudden sheen ran slick over his face and neck, it was clear Sergey understood that much. He would not be killed for his cause, but returned to his keepers like the naughty child he was. This turn of events left him both disappointed and uneasy. 

Solo instinctively frowned then, and that look found him again in the tub. He meant to soak his aching shoulders and lower back--scaling a building was second nature to him, but pulling the weight of an enormous Russian at his back was something he's less practiced in--but his thoughts proved too demanding. Kuryakin was adept in all things espionage, though he could stand to work on his vertical climbing. His knees kept bumping against the building's exterior, causing him to lose what little footing he'd gained. 

Admittedly, Solo was impressed when Kuryakin kicked off his shoes mid-climb, and continued on with the strength of only his knuckled toes. 

Solo sank deep into the tub, so much so that he had to break the level waters and bend his knees. It was worth it to completely engulf his torso in too-hot water. Solo even closed his eyes for a spell, luxuriating in this uncommon treat not because he believed himself safe, even in the anonymous woods. Rather, he had complete confidence in the sole individual he called company. Kuryakin, who knew safety only as a foreign, if not entirely _theoretical_ concept, never fully let his guard down. He was a one-man Terracotta Army, a perpetual soldier until the end of time, and perhaps Solo took advantage of that fact more often than he should.

If it was any consolation to the watchful Russian, Solo’s _thoughts_ were with him, at the very least. 

Solo reconsidered that. His thoughts were _near him,_ anyway, as they circled the entire night’s production. He kept coming back to that term, _production._ Why the grossly unprepared Russian spy? Why should U.N.C.L.E task himself and Kuryakin with what was, essentially, a blindingly mediocre task? A more junior agent could cut his teeth on a case like that, and still know it for the cakewalk it was. 

Between the CIA agents--none Solo recognized, thankfully, though they all undoubtedly knew his name, reputation, and punishment--and the stalwart Russian wannabe superspy, Solo came to the conclusion that the entire case was orchestrated, if not practically _gift-wrapped_ for U.N.C.L.E and then deposited into his and Kuryakin's laps. Every detail bent towards one singular idea: to remind U.N.C.L.E’s quiet Russian ally of the inherent fluidity of his own situation, to impart on all observant souls that _Illya Kuryakin is on borrowed time._

It was a touch heavy handed, now that Solo had his head around it. 

He sighed and sat up. Not only was his bath disturbed by these thoughts, but his peace. He looked from the bath's shiny brass faucet to where there was a small cabinet affixed to the tiled walls, perhaps a foot from the lip of the tub. Solo expected to find various soaps and shampoos--and he did, as well as two bottles of body lubricant, condoms, and a tiny silver compact mirror packed with cocaine.

Solo grinned, and the little cabin took on a new charm. It belonged, if memory served, to friends of Mr. Waverly's. 

"Mr. Waverly," Solo tutted to himself, "The crowds you run in. My goodness." 

For the time being, Solo kept his intentions about calling their handler to himself. He had his ideas about the origins of this particular case, but without confirmation those ideas only stood as dangerous accusations. U.N.C.L.E was a middle ground, distanced from the desires of states by its capacity to look beyond petty struggles and tackle global threats. But it was not an organization wholly isolated from its sources. 

There were powers whispering their will upon the world; it was foolish to think even U.N.C.L.E could always recognize the dog whistle before it responded to it. 

Kuryakin seemed to have a similar idea. Confirmed it for himself, too, when he recognized the make and style of the tech. He remained completely silent as they cased the place and, to his credit, Solo never once referred to him by name, should some of the bugs already be successfully transmitting. 

_"Peril"_ got thrown around once or twice. Solo couldn't imagine the Soviets having much of a tolerance for pet names.

And even as they trekked through the woods, returned to their secreted vehicle, and then to their cabin, nothing was said. 

They were beyond challenging one another, and defensive posturing wouldn’t hold up against the facts. Both men, not wanting to insult the other, contributed to the eerie silence.

It was a curious thing, Kuryakin's allegiance. Solo felt his loyalty as sure as he would a punch to the gut, but the motherland loomed large and ever-present in Kuryakin’s dealings with the world around him. When he misstepped as a spy and bruised his cover, his nationality and culture were to blame. 

Their expeditions into the American west in recent weeks brought the them through to countless diners and towns just-off-the-Interstate, as locals were fond of saying. Kuryakin found the displacement dizzying, and over the same meals produced hundreds of miles apart at identical restaurants, he finally put his discomfort into words, accusing, _You Americans have no culture._

Solo's success in the CIA argued the contrary. His nationality afforded him fluidity, ease. People never knew what to make of him out in the world because he behaved like he owned it. Confidence was Solo flashing a smile, then flashing his passport. The world accepted both. 

Although he had no great love for the American Midwest, Solo was pleased when that kind of talk disappeared as they crept still further towards the coast. California was its own world, a place where Kuryakin did not have to begrudgingly claim to be some vague concoction of the least offensive Eastern European types, spilled in with something easier to take. _Ukrainian, but my mother is French Canadian._ Instead, his Russian nationality earned him a fair number of open-smiled _groovy_ s.

Just outside the bathroom, where the rest of the cabin sprawled and chased itself, rugs feeding over hardwood floors, quilts hanging fat over loveseats, Kuryakin stood alone in the tiny kitchen. He was cooking dinner--a bit of a role reversal, to be sure, as cooking was very much a pleasure Solo frequented, and never pressed for a fair division of the work. But it was Kuryakin who found more value in the task as a distraction. 

When the water lost its warmth, Solo drained the tub and enveloped himself in a soft robe. He was choosy with his options: blue or white, terry cloth or silk, sultan or kimono style. Solo selected a blue terry cloth number, lush and thick, with silver monogrammed lettering on the breast pocket. Its length and cut suggested an owner of smaller stature than Solo, but the belt tied--only just--and Solo felt more covered than not. 

He entered the kitchen in only a few long strides, and drew a plastic comb through his inky-dark hair as he went, as easy and casual as though he was walking through his childhood home. Nothing concerned him. 

Kuryakin did not so much as blink in Solo’s direction. 

“Have you finished preening?”

“Never, but my arms got tired.”

Kuryakin was stood over the stove, surveying the progress of their slapdash meal. He still wore his janitorial disguise, with the exception that he’d shed its top half and cinched the slackened arm sleeves around his waist. His undershirt was a worn gray number with a line of buttons that lead to the throat, then split there. He’d lost the top two, but had undone the third.

For vanity’s sake, Solo presumed. 

“Potatoes,” Kuryakin said, pointing to a cooking tray laden with a dozen or so small, red potatoes. “Carrots,” he said, and nodded towards his creation of a little makeshift grill over the stovetop, upon which they sat in a neat line. 

“Shall we go over shapes and colors, too?” Solo teased, but collected a plate from the pantry all the same. Eyeing the small spread, he thought that he would have prepared a thick stew, but appreciated Kuryakin’s efforts all the same. 

"I checked icebox," Kuryakin said, explaining away the lack of any meat. Solo did not mind. Truth be told, he wouldn't have been surprised if Kuryakin had gone out into the woods and dug up what little they did have. 

"As I must assume you would have boiled it, I'd say it is no great loss." 

The living room doubled for a dining room--which meant, simply, there was a kitchen table next to a tartan couch, with very little space between them. Solo sat longways and took the entire couch. Kuryakin dragged a chair to one corner of the table, and turned it so that his long legs could stretch out into empty air.

It amused Solo endlessly that the sole luxury Kuryakin indulged in was the removal of his shoes.

He’d seen it before: stolen workmans’ boots abandoned in a five-star hotel room’s walk-in closet, muddy loafers discarded in the getaway helicopter, blood-splattered Italian leather--Prada, even. A gift from _Gaby,_ more importantly. The man whose blood bathed Kuryakin’s Prada shoes paid for it with what little he had left. 

Now that he had an opportunity to count back every instance of this behavior, the entire scope of their partnership dawned over Solo. It was there in discarded pairs of shoes and other quirks, yes, but in the lands they touched and the conspiracies they thwarted, it was something else all together. A trial by fire, and nothing like the meticulously planned slog of tasks doled out to Solo by his CIA handlers. It was only natural, then, that the character of their partnership should change. It hummed between them like a shared heartbeat: a string of imagined sinew and flesh tethering them to the very real consequences of their work. 

Their bond either strengthened and solidified, or they died slow and painful deaths--as was often the promise made by their adversaries. 

After the slingshot trials of Rome and Istanbul, they’d flown to New York and been debriefed--somewhat--on their new stations at U.N.C.L.E. Another mission took them to Mexico, and--because they were in the neighborhood, it seemed--Nicaragua. Then, what Kuryakin begrudgingly accepted as their _America Tour_ had them taking on spies taking on the Americans. It was only a surprise they didn't run afoul of _more_ Russian operatives. 

Kuryakin felt distinctly out of place, but no word had come from the KGB suggesting he do anything other than follow his present orders. No extraction came, either. 

Here in the naked swath of California countryside, he felt entirely alone and forgotten.

Alone, save for the constant buzzing in his ear that was Napoleon Solo. Solo, who flitted from responsibility like he did women. Solo, who was so often ready with a smile that it seemed he saw his teeth as purely decorative. Solo, could sniff out a treasure faster than he could draw air into his lungs.

“Is there scotch?” Solo asked, but a quick look around the room for himself provided the answer. He collected a bottle and two crystal glasses, despite the denials Kuryakin would surely mount. He was pleasantly surprised, then, when Kuryakin took the first glass Solo poured--the tidy sum he’d intended for himself. He said nothing and poured another. 

“I’m not sure we deserve this one,” Solo said with a smirk. He raised his glass, and Kuryakin only met it out of tired resignation. “Unless you take to heart what Waverly says--there are no small missions, just small spies.” 

Kuryakin drank down his share, and afterwards only raised an eyebrow at the comment. It was his patented expression for when he assumed some senseless thing said was an American joke. 

“Another?” Solo asked, and Kuryakin knew he would have declined even if the offer hadn’t sounded so pleasing. "Just one drink, then, for the man who doesn't drink," Solo smirked, then took on a poorly Russian accent and said teasingly, "It is the Russian way." 

It was a gamble. A few months ago, Kuryakin would have taken offense or otherwise served Solo his comeuppance. Now, he was prone to issuing a biting remark of his own--"Loving your cover work, Cowboy. Really. Wow."--or playing along--“Your impression of a Russian goat again, Solo? It’s coming along.” 

Goodwill withstanding, he would never have let the line go with merely an unimpressed look, as he did now.

They ate in silence. Much like the car ride, this was Kuryakin’s doing and Solo’s compliance. 

"Not entirely terrible," Solo commended of the meal. It was only at a point where starting was lost to finishing that Solo knew to be the polite time for commentary. 

"Gaby says everything you make stinks," Kuryakin said. Even as he spoke, he sensed some error. "The smell," he elaborated, "A stinky... Stink smell." 

"Our Gaby," Solo grinned, "Always so eloquent. She must get that from you." 

"A fucking stinky stink," Kuryakin said, his smile slight but fierce, very much like Gaby herself. "I should not do the disservice of misquoting her." 

Solo had long forgone any attempt to explain his fine dining preferences, let alone the countless merits of the truffle. He speared a carrot with his fork and gave it a dismissive wave in Kuryakin's direction. "Philistines, the both of you." 

Kuryakin pursed his lips to fend off a wider smile. "Why don't you season your potatoes with all your hubris?"

"Maybe just salt. Ever heard of it?" 

The carrots, although cooked through and warmed over, still had a satisfying snap in the center. In their varying hues of purple, orange, and yellow, they bled over the plate and stained Solo’s and Kuryakin’s lips. Unlike the potatoes, they were in no need of seasoning. They tasted warm and hardy, flesh stripped from the earth itself. 

“The CIA agents,” Kuryakin started, and it was the first he’d spoken about the mission. His gaze was settled on his plate, but turned upwards to catch Solo’s response. “Did you know them?”

“Know them? No.”

“Did you--”

“Recognize the one that tails you in Manhattan? Yes, of course. Same dusty fedora.” Solo watched Kuryakin for some betrayed response, but none came. The Russian seemed satisfied with Solo's answer as both honest and complete. Solo wondered when that had come about.

“Curious,” he added, willfully coy, “I don’t seem to have a corresponding Russian minder.”

Without hesitation, Kuryakin answered, “That is me.”

“Lies within lies within _lies,_ Peril.” Solo chanced a smile that Kuryakin did not acknowledge, much less return. Solo spilled himself over the back of the couch, getting comfortable. He kept his plate balanced on his bare knee. “How do you manage to keep up the charade?” 

“I tell the truth."

“And what is it the Russians want to know about me?”

It was a direct question, and in that respect alone Kuryakin could not let it go answered, lest his silence read as secrecy. “The usual impossibilities: if can be turned, made double agent.” 

With a broad smile and relaxed posture, Solo looked about as concerned for the admission as Kuryakin sounded enthused in its telling. “You know you won’t win me with your arguments for communism. Subverting capitalism with theft is one thing, but…”

“Oh, no. Is lost cause, that one.” 

“Perhaps they’d offer me a deal? A protected life in Russia, though. Is it any life at all?”

“Blackmail,” Kuryakin said, cutting off Solo’s teasing tirade, “Is what they’re after.” 

“How dastardly,” Solo said, and flashed a wolfish grin. “I suppose it's a tried and true method, though. Find anything yet?” 

“You have a penchant for ladies’ robes,” Kuryakin deadpanned. “And ladies, as it happens.”

“Oh, are they going to send one of those?”

Frowning, Kuryakin looked at Solo as if the inquiry had been genuine. “What could a woman learn from one night in your bed that I cannot gather in six months as your partner?”

Solo gave a pitying look. “Oh, Peril. _So very, very much._ ” 

Blushing, Kuryakin said, “I bear this burden alone." 

His gruff tone belied the simple, inescapable fact that he, like Solo, saw humor in the situation. _Turn your partner on to Communism_ was a far cry from the KGB’s earlier order to kill him, but in the grand scheme of things wasn’t such a grand departure. It was, as Kuryakin himself had termed it, another impossible task. 

And Solo found comfort in that. His term as CIA had been strained for obvious reasons: they wished to use him, and he doubted their word on his eventual freedom. Some days during his service, Solo thought he'd have preferred a jail sentence. He could _escape_ from a jail. 

Where his relationship with his CIA handlers and counterparts only degraded as time wore on, Solo found reasons every day to continue working under U.N.C.L.E's banner, and more reasons still to march alongside Illya Kuryakin. He was capable, smart, even funny in the right circumstances. Better company than Solo had ever known in another agent, and a better soul than Solo had ever found in a friend. 

Though, Solo was never one to be content. 

“And men," he said, thinking all the while that when descending into unknown territory, it _would be_ his brightest smile and cheeriest tone leading him there. “I have a penchant for ladies _and_ men. Not to jump the gun, but should you happen across that fact in your own time, I wouldn’t like you to get over-excited and hurt yourself.”

The look on Kuryakin's face was a peculiar one. His eyes and mouth narrowed and fell open, respectively. It wasn't that he'd heard wrong; Solo had said very explicitly what he'd meant, but he'd said a lot of things. Solo wondered which item it was that had Kuryakin stalled. 

“A joke,” Kuryakin caught on, and his open expression contorted again into something pinched and small. "Is joking."

Solo only smiled devilishly and returned to his dinner. “Loving these carrots.” 

Finished with his meal, Solo deposited his plate in the sink, then washed and dried it, as was his habit. He’d picked it up as a bachelor, but being a thief and a spy only served to impress upon him the need for discretion in life’s every detail. 

He dropped his hands into his robe pockets and lazily circled the room. He momentarily fondled the silver compact he’d swindled. He had no intention of making use of its substances--necessarily--but the item itself was such a pretty trinket, Solo thought he'd like to have it in his possession for a spell.

By the north-facing window, he toyed with the record player stationed opposite to the couch. It was a large installation, not one of the newer, cheaper, portable models. The accompanying record collection was equally honed by time, if not taste. Solo found an old jazz record--a bit of a treasure, really, though the dust on its cover suggested it didn't get much play--and kept the volume low. If Kuryakin still had a handful more words to say, it wouldn't do to overpower him.

In lieu of chess, they played checkers. Kuryakin did not complain; he'd undoubtedly searched the cabin for the more refined game and turned up nothing, himself. They played two games in quick succession, but the third petered off into disinterest. It was Kuryakin who clinched it; he raised his piece for the next move, but his hand never descended upon the board again. Instead, he worried it between his thumb and forefinger, and the tiny red piece disappeared into his fist entirely when it settled under Kuryakin's chin. Although he'd easily beaten Solo at their previous games, his attention had been lost, abandoned in the woods with their mission and its unknown implications. 

Solo considered the third game a forfeit, and thus a win in his column. He'd say as much later, when Kuryakin was in lighter spirits. Or when Gaby was near, as it happened. The two were a duel hazard. 

On the face of it, the past few, peaceful hours in a hidden cabin presented quite a feat for the two spies: avoiding confrontation. Kuryakin likely thought it must be easier for Solo; a royal blue robe that skirted the lengths of decency was hardly battle-ready. 

He wandered again to glance out the window and ensure that the woods surrounding their cabin remained undisturbed. In his gut, Solo knew their night would be a quiet one. It’s what unnerved him. He didn't think he could sleep in a place where nothing existed to disrupt that endeavor. An easy night felt like little more than a poorly baited trap to Napoleon Solo, who had gone some years without falling for it. 

Momentous, earth-defining redwoods be damned; the world was lacking without fluorescent-lit cafés and a heady nightlife. 

Despite his misgivings about the cabin, Solo thought Kuryakin would enjoy himself here, were his mind calm. If there was some small token in their displacement, it was the distinct pleasure Solo accrued in seeing Kuryakin in a state of undress, such as it was. He was covered ankle-to-throat, but there were subtle details running contrary to his buttoned-up demeanor: the spilled-opened shirt, bare feet, and the loosening hold of the arms of his jumpsuit around his surprisingly narrow waist. It was a far cry from turtleneck sweaters, creased slacks, shapeless jackets, and those hideous flat caps. 

Solo had seen no fewer than three patterns of cap; it was Kuryakin’s greatest accomplishment as a spy that Solo could not discover where he kept them all. 

He had just the one watch, however. It was a simply crafted piece, if a touch small. It suggested without contestation that the younger Kuryakin had grown larger than his father, who was since crippled in the gulag. 

When Solo circled back to the couch, he took the length of it, and propped his feet--cozy in a pair of white slippers--up towards where Kuryakin was still preoccupied with their halted game of checkers. His plate of potatoes and carrots was abandoned to one side of the board; he hadn’t eaten much at all. 

"What's on your mind?" Solo asked. He looked bored, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in the lap of his robe. He held up a finger to stall Kuryakin’s answer, as if he truly expected one to be forthcoming. "Ah--only tell me if it's anything other than the obvious. I'd like to be surprised." 

It was a thing Solo had learned: there was a piece of Kuryakin bent back and exposed like flayed skin, always an open wound and forever sensitive to pressure. Carefully worded and precisely sought, Solo could render from Kuryakin any truth, so long as the question was phrased as a command. Kuryakin could not refuse an order. 

"Loyalty," Kuryakin grunted at last, "Is it transferable only between man and man? An... entity can demand loyalty. Can it reciprocate?" 

Kuryakin was not predisposed to hypotheticals, and it showed. He struggled with his words, spoke them slowly, like they were drawn one-by-one from a written list he had to consult. 

"An entity," Solo echoed. "Surely you mean a cause?"

Solo had kept his expression blank, but the look Kuryakin served him right back gutted it up the middle. It was something Solo felt all the way down into the pit of his stomach. 

In a voice that was pure _serrated knife through bone,_ Kuryakin said, "You know what I _surely_ mean." 

Disinclined to give his take, Solo fiddled with a red Checkers piece he'd stolen without Kuryakin's knowledge. He found his thoughts drifting back to the beginning, and in a slow exploration of his brushes with loyalty, he cited his record of distinguished service. 

"You'll remember I was a soldier in the war. Maybe I shied away from my post in the end, but no one could say I'd done the same to the men in my unit." Of this, Solo was certain. His dedication to his men had been unwavering.

"To a point," Kuryakin interjected. His eyes were hard and his gaze, steady. "You did not return with them, you defected."

"The war was won."

"Winners go home."

The remark was explicitly biting, and Solo drew back from its teeth, indignant. "It sounds like _someone_ wants to talk, not listen."

Kuryakin returned his checker piece to the board, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He looked appropriately shamed. It wasn't a fair remark--Kuryakin knew as much even as he said it. He knew Solo's military record was commendable. His private personnel files hailed his many storied achievements and quick thinking. He'd earned the respect of his superiors and the faith of his men; as much as he was a footsoldier, Solo was a leader. 

What frightened Kuryakin was how easily Solo walked away from it all. What did he see beyond military service that was so great a calling? What could loosen the iron grip of a man's country? That they'd come after him but dismissed his crimes was still--in its own muddy way--a commendation. 

In mutterings so low Solo very nearly missed their speaking, Kuryakin lamented that his U.N.C.L.E posting suggested he had no loyalty. 

“The KGB’s best,” he said, echoing both Solo’s words and his mild disdain for the honorific. “Yet they give me away to an organization polluted by Americans?”

“Aw, Peril. Are you having a bad time?”

Solo pounced on jokes and levied them with sly smiles, but in truth, he was concerned. Kuryakin was a very much young man, and the foundations of his entire purpose for being were coming uprooted under his feet. From experience, Solo knew that many young men did not survive the upset.

A cleared family name was not some promised trinket for his service; it was something Kuryakin felt others would come to recognize by his example. Every mission, every kill, every success was in service to his personal cause. It was a cry for attention at its basest level, and here the KGB was ignoring him. 

Solo had no doubt Kuryakin would not take this slight well, history of psychotic episodes or not. But his determination to prove that he was everything he was rumored to be was palpable; it broadened his shoulders and steadied his hand.

"Perhaps you should speak up," Solo said, "Make your intentions known."

"They no doubt have me bugged," Kuryakin admitted plainly, and his own arms' grip about his middle slackened. "But they do not listen."

Kuryakin's blonde hair fell unwashed across his forehead, dampened somewhat withs wear and curled by the cool night air. He turned slightly so that Solo's view of him was favored by this. Kuryakin sought to make himself invisible at three feet away. 

He was a lost man, tethered only to his name but abandoned by his cause. Disillusionment--however minute and creeping--was a sorry thing to see in another person. Kuryakin's doubt laid him bare as a devastated young man, immeasurably frightened by the prospect of losing everything he'd once known.

Solo tossed his Checkers piece back onto the board, both disrupting the playing field and swindling Kuryakin's attention. He smiled for the younger man. 

“You’re paranoid,” Solo said with a laugh that rolled warmly through his words. Overlain with any other sentiment, it might have sounded flirtatious and sweet.

But there was no mistaking his words or their truth, so Kuryakin succinctly replied, “Yes.” 

His increasingly poor mood was something Solo had intended to deviate from. Russians, he had come to learn, were not the notoriously dour lot they were believed to be. The world saw their futilistic attitudes about war, all that tasteless vodka and heavy, anguishing verbiage in their literature and naturally assumed they were a people trying to drown themselves. 

While they absolutely took hard me fast left turns into such behavior--Solo bore witness to it now--there was a ferocity in the way they lived, as if they continued to do so to spite some greater power. Kuryakin was beaten, now, but he'd break through the surface yet again if there was a fight to be had.

Though, Solo hoped he could be drawn by other means. 

“That leash the CIA have around my balls, as you so eloquently put it,” Solo said, and effectively did a sit-up from his lazy position on the couch. This put him in arm's length of Kuryakin's dinner plate, from which he stole a carrot--cold now, but still firm--and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, let Kuryakin wait out his antics before Solo arrived at any point. 

“They were going to hang me with it. When my time was up or they found cause to keep me longer, then tired of my antics, anyway. Whichever. Send me on a supposed mission, or outright fly me direct to some black site--Cuba, maybe.” Solo threw his legs down to the floor, sat up straighter and secured the tie on his borrowed robe. The gesture greeted Kuryakin as familiar, and he was reminded of Solo's habit of fixing his hair or shirt cuffs before they delved into particularly dangerous situations. Where Kuryakin checked his guns, knives, and other hidden weapons, Solo secured his own armor.

“I’m known. U.N.C.L.E is my lifeline whether I like it or not. Mine or theirs, the CIA promised me an end. Instead of time served I was issued a new sentence. There's no end, now. I was foolish to ever think otherwise.” Solo smiled again, unmeaning but entirely a part of his dress as surely as shoes or fine suits. “Which is to say, there’s no going back for me, either.”

That Solo could say such things with his usual cheshire cat smile unnerved Kuryakin. He was a forgone conclusion, burned in all ways but literally, yet his death mask was the smiling facade it had always been. Kuryakin felt now that he’d looked upon it every day of their partnership, and not only the instances in which Kuryakin wanted to kill him. 

They were a matched pair--the dead and the dying. 

“I know,” Solo said, confident as though Kuryakin had spoken his own thoughts aloud, “It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?”

\- 

In the morning, they left the cabin as they’d found it--sans a few potatoes and carrots, a little less scotch--and drove to the beach. _Solo_ drove them to the beach, rather, despite Kuryakin’s protests and reminders of the flight they had to catch.

“The airport,” Solo chided him, “Is on the way.”

Kuryakin pointed to their map, indicating that, no, the airport was further inland.

“I always drive in a horseshoe shape. We’ll see if there’s anyone after us.”

“It’s for security’s sake,” Kuryakin droned, his tone mocking. 

“Precisely.”

Under the heightened canopy of redwoods, there was the deceptively peaceful feeling that no one was following them because they simply could not be seen. Perpetual shade traced their path despite the morning hour. On the ground below, time seemed to loop along that daydream hour when day overtook night in name only.

They rode in silence, their previous night's conversation lost to pride and self-service, but secured neatly in both memory and heart. Kuryakin, in particular, was touched by Solo’s admission of foolishness. Greater than any wrong deed or sentimental turn, foolishness was Solo’s great enemy. Twinned with pride, it brought him to his knees before the legal system, and struck again when he made his proverbial deal with the devil. 

“Have you ever seen the Pacific Ocean, Peril?” He spoke loudly to be heard over the air rushing through the car from his open window. He drove carelessly with one arm pitched out to the side, bent at the elbow. Occasionally he beat a tune along with the radio. “One of the greats. Top four.” 

There were no revellers on the beach; it was still early in the season, hardly the sun-soaked postcard-ready image Kuryakin was expecting. It was instead precisely what one might expect when leaving the thick woods and finding an ocean: a strip of bare ground, then sand, then water. Chugging in like a drunkard’s share, the water was dark and dull. Only on the crests of waves did it spark with glimmers of grey-white foam. The sand was neither golden nor white, but a dusty beige color. It was positively unremarkable--and in that sense, entirely _not_ Solo’s scene.

Yet, even without so much as a short skirt or a roving cart trafficking handmade _folk art,_ Solo was ecstatic. 

Solo slowed and drew the car just off the road, then parked in a smattering of gravel and grass. He leaned over Kuryakin in the passenger seat and claimed a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment. He slid them on, then took the car keys and left his shoes.

Sighing, Kuryakin followed suit. He toed over an outcropping of stone and into the soft sand. Admittedly, it felt better than it looked.

He scanned the coast and out towards the horizon for boats. Solo was always in the best moods when he was planning something unlawful, so Kuryakin halfheartedly expected him to execute a long-awaited escape plan. There was nothing in the works by way of water or air as far as Kuryakin could tell. If Solo made for the car again--well, he knew his partner could catch up to him.

Kuryakin sat in the sand and watched as the icy waves rolled over the beach, then slunk back into the dark depths of the ocean. 

He had seen the Pacific before--in photographs and on film, and even overhead in a plane bound for Vancouver. He didn’t think much of it, honestly, but Solo seemed to be enjoying himself. He paced far along the beach, stalled, looked towards the horizon, and drew in great breaths as if hungry for this vision in particular.

Kuryakin had to remind himself that Solo likely hadn't been on American soil since he left for the war. Solo had once told him, when the CIA caught up with him in sunny Tangier, he was worried they’d have him extradited to the United States. He was far more worried when they didn’t. 

Solo, his pants rolled expertly to avoid the sand, started walking at a harried pace. Kuryakin frowned; this was no attempt to escape. Solo was hurrying _towards_ him. 

Kuryakin stood and did not bother to dust the sand from his trousers. He waited, looking as though his bottom half was a deep-fried treat the Americans in the middle of Solo’s country seemed to love so much. When Solo approached him, something in his assured step and hardened face demanded attention. Even the sunglasses were done, hanging loosely from the throat of Solo’s dress shirt.

“Can I trust you?” Solo asked, his expression like stone. “This is of the utmost importance, Peril. Can I trust you?”

Kuryakin glanced down the beach where Solo had been, but saw nothing that might have spooked him. He looked to Solo, his hands drawing into fists, his shoulders squaring. He was at the ready. 

“Yes.”

"Wait here." 

Before departing, Solo clasped his hands down on Kuryakin's shoulders. It was a firm touch, as if Solo meant to physically station his partner in the sand. His blue eyes sharpened as he narrowed his eyes and again stared down the empty beach. His hand itched for his sidearm, but the distinct lack of a target made the move categorically foolish. The blood started to beat heavy between Kuryakin’s ears as he waited for this unseen danger to strike. He slowed his breathing and turned his head merely a hair, just so that he could see Solo from the corner of his eye. 

Solo’s stiff walk had left him like a gimp claiming a miracle. Hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, he walked casually to the car. There, Solo put the keys into the ignition and blasted the radio. He returned to the beach with such a grin spread wide across his handsome face that Kuryakin could count the teeth he wanted to knock out of the man’s skull.

Solo did a quick shuffle in the sand as he passed Kuryakin, but with no willing dance partner he couldn't find cause to sustain the moves.

Spoken through gritted teeth of his own, Kuryakin remarked, “My trust is not endless well, Cowboy.”

Inexplicably, Solo only grinned wider. “You’ll tell me when I scrape the bottom, won’t you?”

“You’re getting close,” Kuryakin said, and snapped a hand out to relieve the pair of sunglasses from Solo’s ownership. The move seemed only to please Solo tremendously.

Solo only spent twenty more minutes taking in the sights. He called Kuryakin a “beach bum” and insisted they leave at once, lest they miss their flight.

Although he saw Solo’s ploy as his usual brand of needless trouble-making, it lacked grace and sense in its execution. Kuryakin chose the biggest flaw in Solo’s plan and took aim: "You realize I could simply hot wired car."

"Hmm? I meant, trust my choice of a radio station." Solo made a face of totally passable innocence--not a look Kuryakin would have thought possible. He worried for all the poor souls who had come to see it, and now included himself among their rank. 

Entirely too pleased with himself, Solo continued, "You were free to drive off anytime you wished."

As far as double crossings went, it wasn’t the worst Kuryakin had come up against. 

And a half hour did a lot for the view and the weather. Under a brighter, warmer sun Kuryakin thought the little pocket of beach Solo had claimed was quite the vision. Bright blue waves lapped hungrily at the shore, each crested with foam so white it looked like shining pearls. Kuryakin drew on Solo’s sunglasses as they drove away. 

“Very good ocean,” Kuryakin told him. “Definitely top four.”


	2. Chapter 2

Their hotel room was enormous, and all the emptier for not having Gaby Teller in it. 

She’d sustained a particularly nasty concussion enroute to their current destination--some tin can of a plane and a poorly-placed carry-on bag were her downfall. Were it not for all the blood loss, she’d have felt like a fool. Rightly or wrongly, she’d earned her ticket home. 

Able-bodied--and with minds no more addled than they were to start--Kuryakin and Solo compressed their stories and spread themselves a little thinner for Beirut, where they were to meet up with arms dealers, make a play to fund their business, then leave them high and dry and neatly gift-wrapped for the International Court of Justice.

It was a meatier test of their skills--nothing like their stateside efforts as of late. Longer, too. Beirut was a month, to start. 

Their altered roles had the added detriment of sounding contrived, and Kuryakin and Solo made noise about that, wanting instead to wait out Gaby’s recovery time and conduct the mission as planned. 

They were told--though not thoroughly convinced--that their story was as real as they made it out to be. 

(Much of this went down over a secret phone call to Waverly on a noisy tarmark. Gaby gave them as sympathetic a wave goodbye as she could while holding a dripping bag of ice to the side of her head.)

Kuryakin played the part of an artist/photographer friend to Solo's astute business man. The role gave him cause to drop in on Solo's lunches and be seen together around town as he stalked potential clients of this burgeoning arms trade. Kuryakin's surveillance work was key; they weren’t just after one individual with an arsenal to sell, here. Waverly had provided dossiers on no fewer than thirty men with ties to the arms trade in that area. U.N.C.L.E was poised to ruin them all.

Solo, positioned as a potential silent partner--"the money"--took eagerly to his guise, and let himself be wined and dined by war criminals and would-be politicians alike. Beirut had a great deal to offer of itself in this respect. 

“The Paris of the Middle East!” people would claim, and follow up with, “That’s what people will say--give it a year, Insha'Allah!” They spoke a boisterous concoction of fast-paced French, stunted English, and rolling, lyrical Arabic. It was impossible to follow and find fault in their claims; Solo succumbed to them out of practicality. The would-be arms dealers were a different breed--French born, most of them, with military contacts but no corresponding service. They had money already, and were now only playing with it. 

Consorting with the kinds of men who saw only profit to be made at the backs of war _did_ take something out of him. Solo could let his charming smile glaze over most things, but putting heavy weaponry into the arms of small children did not sit well with him, no matter what delicacies followed suit. Fine dining, exclusive clubs, women, boys. 

“I’m sure it takes a lot out of you,” Kuryakin had said when Solo took to complaining.

“Having to resist,” Solo bemoaned, “Is _agony.”_

And true to form, Solo did not resist, not entirely. There would be nights Kuryakin didn't join Solo in his hotel room for a debriefing of the day's events, times when he delayed his morning visit, after that. Solo never entertained the same girl twice, a fact Kuryakin gathered not by visual confirmation, but by the range and variance of flowery scents pressed into Solo's bed sheets and caught in the air split between the hotel room and the hallway. Kuryakin found himself stood in those very smells often--a degrading position, but unavoidable unless he planned to enter Solo's penthouse room through the exterior window. 

Scaling a building to find his friend in the midst of lovemaking _would_ be the kind of thing Kuryakin's cover would do. _Had done,_ even, per one of Solo's entertaining business lunch lies. This one spilled forth during simple introductions, over sweet dates, tiny pastries, and Solo's tempting fake bank statements. Although neither Solo nor Kuryakin could claim a genuine University experience, Solo was a wealth of stories. He appropriated most from his fellow soldiers’ exaggerated tellings, and took some further liberties, himself. A couple of lady guests in a dorm room suddenly drew a heavily weighted ratio, and spelled a busy night. Some of Solo’s descriptions--which drew howls of delight from his business partners--made Kuryakin blush. 

Wrapped in his stylish suits and easy charm Solo was, in fact, every inch the slick businessman he was born to be. ( _In another life, perhaps,_ he thought ruefully as he flaunted unearned wealth and prestige--window dressing, all of it.) As the the university chum, a wanderer and tourist, Kuryakin was less equipped. 

The role called for him to announce himself as Solo’s junior; Solo, decidedly older, went to university on the G.I. Bill while Kuryakin was the lucky nephew of some so-and-so seeking political asylum. It complemented Solo’s cover, then, that the younger Kuryakin was drawn to this charismatic American and rewarded for it. 

Exotic trips and the means of keeping himself afloat while he pursued his artistic passions... if his very presence wasn’t evidence enough, Kuryakin said so explicitly: “My friend… is a generous man.” 

Kuryakin wrapped himself up in the cause, made himself aware of all the players, victims and victors and criminal class alike. He traded his wool trousers for khaki pants, slim and stylish for the times. In lieu of turtlenecks, Kuryakin donned linen shirts of varying shades of blue and white. They hugged his shoulders then spilled wrinkled over his frame. The arms were rolled haphazardly to his elbows, the front pressed down with Kuryakin's ever-present camera looped around his neck. On cool nights spent out in the city, walking a meandering track that devolved into tailing marks, Kuryakin wore oversized sweaters of a soft knit. Even for his size and stature, the wardrobe did its level best to make him seem sweet and harmless, not a player like his friend. He was a young man with a height advantage doing little else than to put his head in the clouds. 

In the sundrenched afternoons, cheap sunglasses marked him as young and extensively broke. As for his favored flat caps, Solo suggested he keep them. 

_“They make you look like a romantic,"_ he'd said. 

A camera bag finished the look--a well-worn item, soft like his loafers, and expertly lined with hidden compartments for his guns and surveillance equipment. It joined the hats as the only sincere things about Kuryakin’s get-up. His smiles were affectations, dropped the second Kuryakin slipped from view and returned to observer status. 

He’d very much have liked Gaby at his side, dragging him to museums and ruins and the snowy mountains not so far from the sunny beaches. They'd indulge in sweets and he'd take her shopping in the souks where he’d attempt to haggle, but fail while she would swiftly succeed with a smile and a wink. And Gaby, with her quick wit and calculating mind, would unearth some previously untouched potential in their business partners, the likes of which would bring these men to their knees.

Without her, Kuryakin and Solo were relegated to the long con, a slow game of surveillance and trust-building among thieves. Worse still, they were banished into one another’s company. A month was a long time to be the captive of Napoleon Solo’s charming smiles and slick overtures. Pretending to be his dear friend was a genuine trial. 

Kuryakin especially detested Solo’s frequented, groping half-hugs, which felt unnatural and as though someone had dropped the severed arm from a corpse over his shoulders as a joke. To this very end or for his own amusement, Solo initiated an all-around friendly intimacy with Kuryakin's cover. Solo passed him food from his plate with his bare hands, insisting Kuryakin had to try it. He drank from Kuryakin’s glass without hesitation. And as it was tantamount that nothing of Solo's behavior be regarded as suspect, Kuryakin wired himself to respond without incident, to be utterly compliant and to smile in due course. 

It was not so when they returned to the hotel their first night. Kuryakin shoved Solo well through his hotel room door, then met him again with a hand fisted in Solo's shirtfront, another peeling away from his side, ready to strike. 

Solo only raised a single eyebrow and asked dryly, "Are we hitting, now?"

Kuryakin didn’t waste a breath; he said what it was Solo should know of him: "I will break. Your. Spine." 

In that moment, he was the formidable brute Solo had first seen in East Berlin, racing without pause and overtaking every obstacle until it was only time and gravity that failed him. He was inhuman, a being with ceaseless stamina, strength, and fortitude. That was what Solo thought, anyway, up until he caught a glimpse of the expression on Kuryakin's face as he was left dangling, just seconds away from his prize. He'd looked perturbed, as if it was unfathomable that his plan--pure suicide, though it was--would fail him.

Well, to a point. 

Solo chose to forget, sometimes, that he’d left him in a mine field. 

Kuryakin hadn’t forgotten. As with most things Solo did, Kuryakin bore it and took it personally. He let the thing weigh on him, an anchor cementing his position as one inherently distanced from the American. 

"Why must you make difficult--make this difficult for me?" After spitting out his words, Kuryakin went an unexpected shade of red, then released Solo with the ferocity of another shove. 

Solo set a curious eye on Kuryakin as he straightened his suit jacket and shirt. Kuryakin’s grip had loosened a button at his throat, and when Solo went to adjust it, the button came off completely. Solo threw it open to finish the job. Then, he swept a hand through his hair--a final gesture to cement his complete inability to be cowed by the strong-armed actions of others. It was a defense as sure as his shooting, but twice as devastating. Those who would oppose him--the mad geniuses and wealthy sociopaths of the world--were best crippled by a blow to their egos, if not their empires. 

To his credit, Kuryakin-- _as neither a genius nor wealthy,_ Solo thought wryly--was not undone by Solos display. He waited patiently for Solos answer, and saw nothing but vanity in the grand production.

"I did not realize extending a friendly attitude my way was some impossible task," Solo said. He threw his stiff tone towards wistfulness and added, "What the CIA wouldn't _give_ to know the KGB's greatest weakness."

Kuryakin's face went red again, and the color prickled down his neck as though it meant to escape his very being. He glanced about the room after realizing he hadn't cased it since that morning. The place felt untouched, however, and Kuryakin was one to trust his instincts. 

He thought, then, that he should extend that courtesy to Solo, and speak his mind without fear of being betrayed for it. "We are partners, now," he started, but found that his own pride silenced him, and in the end he did not voice his discomfort. "Please."

Solo heard it anyway; he'd always had a keen eye for others' tells, but Kuryakin's anxious tics were in another league. Any efforts to mask them only served to heighten their broadcast. Here he was now, fidgeting like his skin couldn't contain his own bones. It was a pitiable sight.

"Genuinely," Solo told him, "That is what I'm trying to get across."

The hard line of Kuryakin's brow snapped, and his face instantly softened. He sighed, raised a hand only to drop it along the backside of his own neck. His fingers dipped down past the wrinkled collar of his shirt and was reminded of the damage he'd done to Solo's. His gaze was drawn to his partner's throat, and was still settled on the tanned flesh there when Kuryakin said, in the only brand of apology he was capable of accessing, "I will have your shirt repaired." 

Solo plucked at the split collar and made a face of disinterest. The open throat made him look a tad rowdy, but it was no unbearable thing, much less nothing he couldn't pull off in a pinch. He chanced a smile, said, "Think nothing of it. Now, if that offer to work on my back still stands--"

"Goodnight, Cowboy."

In all future dealings with their marks, Kuryakin followed Solo’s lead. He smiled and was so deceptively at ease, even Solo began to believe it. Kuryakin's face seemed to take on a different shape as the severe lines of his mouth and brow gave way to rounded smiles and a wide-eyed look that made him appear both sweet and a touch vapid. Solo had no doubt these finer touches were the result of his and Gaby's influence; there were times for a spy to chase after and dismember a car, and there were times a spy had to smile and drink tiny coffees. 

They ventured deep into Beirut, mingled with his higher classes, and became intimately aware of the inner workings of this burgeoning city. Under its sunny skies and snow-peaked mountain fringe, the city was beautiful and deceptively at peace. But Beirut in the 1960’s was a hotbed of American intelligence, and more often than not Kuryakin found himself running interference for Solo against his own kind.

On a breezy Tuesday afternoon Solo left a meeting held in the back room of a tailor's workshop. He stepped onto the dusty street with a pocket full of scribbled dates and Kuryakin's listening device. He spied Kuryakin, his face hidden behind his bulky camera as he pretended to take shots of an idyllic cafe front some blocks away. Men threw their arms across the bare shoulders of their dates as they stifled giggles and smiled for Kuryakin's camera. Even from a distance, Solo thought one of the women--a smirking brunette, tanned and messy-haired from a day at the beach--looked exceptionally like their very own Gaby Teller. 

Solo started walking west and left Kuryakin behind, but was not without his joined presence for long. They would align at some far-away meeting point, where their passing was purely happenstance. 

It was by design, then, that each man walked for nearly half an hour. Any longer and they'd be some ways out of the city, but any less would be noticed in a place teeming with spies. 

"Something is not right," Kuryakin said as soon as Solo slipped from the alleyway and stepped into line with him. It was not what Solo expected to hear--his dealings with the arms traders had started off a little rocky, with Solo playing the part of his shrewd businessman, but they'd ended on good terms. Solo had even gifted them with a better deal than they had sought, with plans for expansion and continued involvement. The little piece of Russian tech in his pocket--neatly disguised as a nondescript pill case--would have ensured that Kuryakin heard exactly that. 

Solo kept his cool and was rewarded for it. Kuryakin dropped his voice, added, "I have been contacted."

And again, Solo's first thought was that their covers had been blown and the mission was at stake, but he dismissed it. He knew when he had successfully captivated an audience, and these men were eagerly, willfully his to entertain. No, this work was clean. 

That left only one alternative. "Your handlers?"

"No," Kuryakin said, and Solo's gaze cut along the street with the ferocity of a shattering glacier; he was in the meeting, but somehow out of the loop. But once again, Kuryakin surprised him. Large hands clasped into fists at his side, Kuryakin looked ready to battle an imagined uproar when he admitted, "A friend."

They broke from the sheltered streetside and had a choice of delving deeper into the bustling city, or following a dusty path to the beach. Solo chose the latter and Kuryakin, as if still deeply in character, followed suit. 

"A cause for concern," Solo agreed, though his light tone suggested he was poking fun at his stoic companion.

"She only made contact. She relayed no message." Kuryakin ducked his head slightly and pretended to inspect his camera. He had, rather stupidly, taken a picture of the handsome couples dining in the midday sun. The rest of the images were of Solo's meeting and those who had left it. 

"Is she in danger, do you think?"

Kuryakin shook his head. "We have a... code word for that."

"The pumpernickel has gone stale?" Solo asked wryly, and smiled at Kuryakin's hard look of confusion. "My code word."

"I will make a note of it," Kuryakin grunted, and spoke the alien word so disjointedly, it was as though he had a clump of it in his very mouth. _"Pumpernickel."_

Kuryakin fell silent as an old man handling a push-cart passed them on the path. Solo made a small purchase--a handful of wrapped sweets and two teas--and tipped generously. 

Sat on a bench overlooking the Mediterranean, Kuryakin passed on the crinkle-paper-wrapped sweets, but accepted a tea.

“I will find the truth,” Kuryakin said, determined. Solo knew he would; Kuryakin was nothing if not a persistent and innovative pursuer. He’d have his answer. But with his lips pressed to the paper lid of his cup, and sweet, fragrant tea stalled before his mouth, Solo spared a passing moment for concern. Capable men forget their limitations, and reminders to this effect were not so kind. 

He lowered his tea, said, “I don’t doubt you’ll move heaven and earth trying,” then met his cup to Kuryakin’s before drinking. 

The beach ahead of them boasted no sand; it was mostly stone colored with bright green sea grit. It made for soft footing for the locals and those few brave tourists who crept out so far that they appeared to be balancing on the tide itself. When the water receded, the stone looked as if the flesh of dirt and grass that gripped the rest of this coastal country had been torn off the bone. He saw the curl of a ribcage, picked bare. 

When the last dregs of their teas went cold, they walked along the coast. Both were quietly reminded of California. 

There was an abundance of stone outcropping littering their path--some natural, others the remains of a great Roman Empire. They signaled former ports and fort stations, the remnants of war while the shadow of another crept into the city at the heels of the arms dealers Solo was set to woo. The sea glittered blue beyond the coast, and brightly-colored ferry boats cut across in neat lines on their journeys to Cyprus.

The sun set quickly, leaving the sky an electric blue and lit the cafés lining their return to the hotel a fiery orange.

Solo nodded towards a bathhouse, distinguishable only as a dusty pink building, short while those around it grew tall and tittered with ornate balconies and cotton curtains dancing through open windows. "You're still tense. I could do with a steam, myself."

Kuryakin looked upon the bathhouse and the male clientele lounging at its doors with mild disdain. "I am still recovering from our turn in Istanbul."

"It was only a little knife wound."

"Yes. Only a little point on a six-inch steel awl." Kuryakin sympathetically touched his left side where a pin-prick of a scar remained from the incident that nearly cost him his lower intestine and working internal functions.

"For what it's worth, I sincerely doubt it will happen twice."

"That was twice," Kuryakin said, but by way of explanation only offered begrudgingly: "Russia has bathhouse, too." 

A smile split Solo's handsome face in two. It was nothing like the ones he spilled over their targets, which were plentiful but tortured at the corners. Here, Solo's delight was genuine and unfettered, and Kuryakin was its sole beneficiary. (Solo would be kidding himself if he did not recognize the piqued interest and curious glances from the men lounging outside the bathhouse.) 

He took a few steps forward, positioned himself out ahead of Kuryakin and turned on his heel, then expertly continued to walk pace with his partner, going backwards. "Well now, aren't I the fool? I told you it would be a great story for your grandchildren, and here it was a sequel all this time."

"Maybe now more of joke," Kuryakin said, and with some swift maneuvering of his own--perennially aided by his long legs--he came out ahead of Solo. 

He didn't see Solo's face, then, when the man barked a laugh and said, "Always the optimist! That's what I love about you, Peril."

\- 

On the night before they were due to fly back to Manhattan and debrief with U.N.C.L.E, Solo would have thought Kuryakin had had enough of him. The slow progression of knocks at his hotel room door told him otherwise. 

When Solo was stirred from his bath, he felt as though he was prompted by the hotel’s own heartbeat. He heard it well over the swinging song on the little radio he'd positioned on the bathroom countertop. The drumming was incessant but brought no further action--no boots to the hinges, no bullets through the fine wood detailing. Just slow, endless knocking. 

It wasn’t right.

It was Kuryakin coming to call, but Solo pictured a monster at his back. He answered the door in his bathrobe, loosely tied, gun at his hip. The grip went instantly slick with the touch of his hand, but it was of no matter. Solo didn't reach for it twice. 

Kuryakin filled the doorway, then tipped forward and fell against Solo. For the briefest, most excruciatingly terrifying moment, Solo thought for sure there was a knife or bullet in the giant’s back, because nothing less could make this hulk of a man stagger. 

But Kuryakin’s hands raised to grasp Solo’s shoulders, and his grip was strong. He was--physically--all there. 

Solo was a spy who appreciated clean living. Either by strategy or fortune alone, he had not often been manhandled. It was through his wits that he skirted that murky territory and came away--mostly--unscathed. For as fit and commendable a force as he was in his own right, Solo's demeanor simply didn't take to it. His face was more valuable than his capacity to _knock someone out with it,_ so while Kuryakin would throw himself full-bodied in every task, Solo operated through the belief that there was a finer way. 

Kuryakin had come to accept that what he first attributed to vanity was, in fact, nothing shy of the intimate presentation of tact. Even the faintest hint of a black eye could sour a ruse. A wealthy business man being robbed, while wholly possible, read poorly in the eyes of their marks. Solo was meant to be impenetrable. 

In fact, Solo’s most recent forays into battles of brute force had been _with_ Kuryakin: a bathroom scuffle, most notably.

Solo found a likeness in those battles here. That he meant no harm did not immediately pardon Kuryakin's touch and turn it gentle. It was strong, but there was no power thrown behind it. Solo found it comparable to a great bear, all fight lost to the necessity of hibernation. 

Kuryakin was sinking slowly into himself. 

“My mother,” he said, and choked on the rest. 

In their embrace, Solo felt the shock of warm, wet tears fall on his bare neck. Were he a different man, he’d excuse the droplets as water from his own damp hair, and never think twice about it. 

He was not that man.

“Oh,” Solo said, stumbling slow and awkward onto Kuryakin’s terrible reality.

Because he couldn’t break from Kuryakin’s grip to raise his own arms, Solo extended that comfort around Kuryakin’s middle. He spread his hands--still wet--across Kuryakin’s back. Although hungry for skin, his fingertips only tasted the soft wool of the Russian’s favored mossy brown sweater. 

Solo, whose only words of the woman were mean-spirited and snidely spoken to break the steely Russian’s mettle, could now not find his voice. It wasn’t that he was unable to conjure up a dozen kind things to say, but none that came to mind could meet the task. None were what Kuryakin needed to hear. 

_Who in their right mind tells an avowed atheist his mother is in a better place?_

Solo didn’t believe in much of the way of heaven or hell, himself. He’d come to learn there were no certainties in this world, and that if he played the game long and well enough, every man tasted a little of both. 

He did the only thing that was left for him to do: he held Kuryakin, firm, and for as long as the Russian allowed.

Their relationship had shifted towards trust long ago--by Solo's count, Kuryakin's timely efforts to save him from a gruesome, tortured end did the trick rather nicely. Kuryakin maintained his doubts until the very end, where a selfless gift--and not the duty of saving the life of a comrade--brought Solo into a new light. It was the the unexpected return of his father’s watch and, enshrined therein, the subtle agreement that whatever his roots, Kuryakin’s beliefs were worthy of respect that clinched it. It was more than he’d come to expect from any man, let alone an American. 

Solo had won his favor, then. Wholly and completely. He'd continue to find fault with Solo's methods, but Kuryakin never doubted his intentions. 

For as long as he had been KGB--and, simply, _Russian_ \--Kuryakin knew it wise not even to trust his fellow agents. Paranoia was both rampant and vital in his line of work, a means of assuring a longer life, if not the fullest one. But then there was Solo, who stood clear of that fog of distrust like a beacon of light. He had his own ideals, derived from his nation but set apart, somehow, after time in the greater world beyond his borders. He was a man endowed with his own unique reality--or, he desperately seemed to think so. He was a true individual, and in that and the likewise uncommon station he held now as a friend--a rare commodity in itself--he was deserving of trust, or nothing else. 

Kuryakin believed this, even if his progress towards that end was sometimes stunted. But where he had shuffled and toed that line before, he’d careened well over it, now. 

His breath was ragged and wet over Solo’s shoulder. There, the scent of Solo and the expensive shampoos he used flooded his senses, making Kuryakin dizzy and hurting for home, where only flowers smelled like flowers, and men smelled like dirt.

Kuryakin took a step back that felt like it was made through hardening plaster. His own grip slipping, Solo let him. 

Cold air rushed to fill the new space between them, to replenish and cleanse what had been warmed-over and shared. It hit Solo hard and he stood before it like one might station himself at a frosted window, eager for the untouched view, but careful of its fragility. Kuryakin turned his face slightly, obscuring his reddened cheeks and glassy eyes as he swallowed a few more steadying breaths. He brushed a hand over his face once, twice. 

Ashamedly, all this-- _the tears_ \--struck Solo as excessive, and led him to believe only one thing: “Did they--the Party--?” 

He was convinced that something had been _done_ to her, that Kuryakin could not be this broken up over loss due to sickness or age; he was no sentimentalist. And something flashed across Kuryakin's face to give Solo the misplaced confidence he was right, but it disappeared as quickly as it came, and left no trace. His great, shaking hands raised themselves to smooth the wettened wrinkles in his sweater. It was all he could do to keep them from curling into fists. 

_So,_ Solo thought, and nothing more. Blame crossed Kuryakin’s mind, but he'd banished it. His position was that this was a loss, not a theft, and yet Kuryakin thought to go to Solo all the same. 

“My sincerest apologies,” Solo spoke the words like a solemn vow, and did so promptly. He would not force Kuryakin to answer, to lie to him. 

From the bathroom, the small radio Solo had been playing jumped to life with a brazen little song, an Umm Kulthum number. Five minutes a go, Solo could have seen himself humming along with the tune, butchering the words once he got a feel for them. Now, he'd sooner spill his clip into the bathroom door, blindly hoping he'd plug the radio full of lead to silence it. 

When his partner still did not speak, Solo again bridged the space between them with a hand on Kuryakin's own--the one that shook at his side when he was distressed, rattling like a pipe bomb. "Illya, I am so sorry."

It shook now, under Solo's touch. 

Then, because it was the least offensive way he could think to ask if Kuryakin needed time to mourn, he pressed, “Will there be a funeral?”

Kuryakin straightened up and seemed to physically _draw back_ any further tears. He succumbed to the facets of polite society which, for all Solo’s teasing to the contrary, Kuryakin was still a member. And for all that crying had done to make his blue eyes brighter, they seemed incredibly small, particularly when he turned his gaze away from Solo. He was disappointed with himself and the entirety of this display. Likewise, Solo was ashamed to think that Kuryakin saw the surprise on his own face, and was shrinking back appropriately.

“I am told there was,” he said, his sentences no longer broken, but his tone undoubtedly still shattered. If a little huskily, he added, “It was well-attended.” 

Solo read into it the same sorry justification Kuryakin was meant to accept: even in death, his mother did not feel the lack of her only son. 

Then came the strange reversal, wherein Kuryakin was seemingly without purpose, standing in the doorway of Solo’s room. And like Kuryakin was moved to seek out Solo, Solo was compelled to draw Kuryakin in. There was some maneuvering, an exchange of shared breath and the shuffle of feet. The door closed to Solo’s room, and Kuryakin slumped against it. 

Outside, it rained heavily. The recently paved streets were lit by restaurants, shops, and clubs enveloping patrons escaping the sudden deluge. The puddles forming around curbs and street corners had the look of lacquered gold. In his bathtub, Solo had watched all this from what must have appeared to those below as a tiny, insignificant light in a hotel room, just one among hundreds on the hill. He loved Beirut; it was alway changing. Last he was here he’d had to sleep in the museum he later liberated of several of its more delicate Phoenician riches. Now, there were lavish hotels. A whole hill of them, overlooking a bustling, vibrant city. Even with the rain Solo had intended to go walking, but his plans were now irreparably changed. 

“Come in,” he said uselessly. Kuryakin was already two broad feet into his room--as was the rest of him, but slumped and uncertain, Kuryakin made every attempt to disappear. 

“I do not want… to drink.”

Like that wasn’t his sole idea, Solo said, “No, of course not,” and smoothly stepped to one side of the doorway, making space for Kuryakin to make more of his entrance. Solo welcomed him like he would a valued guest. “Come in. Sit.” 

He had nothing but a champagne flute at his disposal, so he drained it himself and fixed a tall glass of water in its stead. From the bathroom, he retrieved a washcloth. He threw the latter over his arm, and pretended not to notice when it purposefully slid onto the coffee table, where Kuryakin’s giant hands did their best impression of a sleight-of-hand to retrieve it for his own. 

He simply held it, worried the soft loops of fabric momentarily in his hands before returning it to the tabletop. There would be no more tears, and no security with which to chance otherwise. 

Kuryakin let the rag fall into his lap and used his great hands to cradle his head. It should have been a mother’s task to console him, and Solo wondered if that was what Kuryakin was imagining. But his own touche wasn’t a gentle one; the palms of his hands were pressed hard against his eyes, his fingers laced tight in his hair. He might have very well attempted to crush his own skull in that position, and maybe he would have succeeded. And maybe he’d finally feel a sense of deserved accomplishment, the kind he was always vying for with his exemplary accomplishments for the KGB. 

Distractedly, Solo wondered how he might be forced to report such an incident. 

_He destroyed himself. How? Well, he tried very hard._

Kuryakin was quiet for an indeterminate period of time, which wasn’t--in itself--unusual. What was damn near unheard of was that Solo said nothing, did nothing, _drank nothing,_ and simply bore witness to his friend’s small tragedy. He did not preoccupy himself with some idle task, or decide that what the situation called for-- _really called for_ \--is his homemade risotto. 

It was not the first time Solo had to be reminded that Kuryakin--and Gaby, and himself--were human beings, in addition to their trade. To distract himself from his sentencing--such that it was--Solo returned to the mentality of the soldier. He picked it up again and left common morality in its place, and was surprised at how easily he could excuse himself from the equation made up of his very self and actions. He saw himself and others only in terms of actors on a world stage, participants in a war of much design and collaboration. They were composites of their countries in this view, and by that rendering had no external factions to which their loyalty was owed. Gaby did not have a father to lose--and yet she’d lost him--and Kuryakin did not have a mother to protect--and yet he’d failed her. 

This was why Solo worked better alone--it was easier to overlook such contradictions in one’s own self, but his critical eye zeroed in on those very faults as they persisted in others. And it was Solo’s natural inclination to exploit a weakness. 

So Solo bit his tongue. He imagined that grace and civility were other guises he could wear, even if just temporarily. 

When Kuryakin raised his head, when the mania sank from the backs of his eyes and from in between his ears and settled sluggish and heavy in his gut, when his gaze focused, and he saw Solo, he felt something twist and release in his gut. He worried he’d need that washcloth, after all. 

“Who do I do this for, now?” The question was voiced to the floor. It was as though Kuryakin could not even hold his head upright and show his face as he spoke this, some tiny breath of doubt. His KGB handlers warned of a shared shame, as though it followed from his father like his blood lineage. These warnings came dressed up with a promise: that a reversal was possible, that Kuryakin could shake off his father’s betrayal, or better yet--expunge it from his own family history. 

And he had dedicated nearly two decades to such an endeavor, yet all Kuryakin had to show for it was a greater understanding of his father’s fate, and the doubt any good son would carry for its merit.

So he was a man at odds. And like any other weakness, Solo was quick to spot it. 

Solo did not begin to presume that Kuryakin was thinking defection as a proper response, here. There was his name to consider, his life, and the distinct danger of moving about the world a marked man. That he was hurting was clear, however. And a wounded man inevitably lashes out. 

“What better show of independence,” Solo said carefully, “Than to carry on, unaffected?”

Kuryakin said, “I am not.”

“Independent, or…?”

“Unaffected.” Kuryakin's left hand rose to smother his eyes. He hid for a time, then drew it back and was barefaced and naked before Solo, who had never seen his partner so completely undone. “I do not wish… to be alone in this world.”

Solo could not be certain if he spoke about the inexplicable fear of existing as a man without a country--U.N.C.L.E. had its charms, but it was no hulking super power--or if he meant what he said and, very simply, could not contend with his new reality. He had lost his remaining immediate family, his mother, who raised him with so little, who praised him despite his sullied name. She was the last to carry his father’s good memory, and Kuryakin did not know if there was enough of it in his own heart to continue. 

That was it, Solo decided. Very simply, Kuryakin was speaking to his immeasurable heartache, and the doubt he harbored that he could weather it.

He was not strong enough. Not for this.

A large hand again climbed to his face, covered his eyes and settled on the bridge of his nose. Kuryakin took long, slow breaths. The shuddering sound of air drawing past clinched teeth interrupted the otherwise complete silence of the room. When he pulled the hand away, it was because he realized he had nothing left to hide. 

He held his hands out listlessly before him, which was strange. Never once had Solo seen them hanging without purpose. They were positioned as if to grasp something small and delicate, and Solo imagined Kuryakin saw himself fondling his own bleeding heart, watching it gasp and die outside his chest.

Solo sat up a little straighter and double knotted the tie on his robe in a vain effort to look presentable. “Do you have a photo of her?” 

Kuryakin shook shook his head. “There is one…” he trailed off. He knew where he could find a photo, but the resigned look on his face said he could not bring himself to ask for its return. 

Abruptly, Kuryakin stood. It was a surge upwards powered by his legs and the distinct feeling that he had overstepped, even forgotten himself. His ills were not Solo's to shoulder. “My apologies for the intrusion,” he said, speaking to Solo but not able to bring himself to set his eyes on him. Kuryakin feared Solo would meet his gaze and somehow break him of this, a moment of staunch retrieval of his wits. “I thank you for your kindness and… your discretion.” 

"Stay," Solo insisted. He rightly guessed Kuryakin's room was torn to shreds, demolished in the wake of such troubling news. But Kuryakin was resolved to leave, and to sit amidst the mess he'd made. "Then at least promise me this--if there is something to be known and something to be done," Solo waited a beat, and let the room open to the possibilities Kuryakin would deny now until he was otherwise faced with their reality. Doublespeak was a language they shared as surely as Russian and English, and Kuryakin lowered his head slightly in acknowledgement of Solo's terms. "You will let me know. We are partners, after all."

Kuryakin agreed, "We will say our farewells." 

\- 

In the morning, Kuryakin was as stern-faced as ever. He returned to Solo’s room--not with a tear-stained face, but a collection of photographs. They spelled the story of the rest of his night, which was spent in the confines of a bathroom drawn in red. He quietly requested Solo’s aid in identifying all relevant parties and listing any information Solo may have become privy to in these meetings, where even with his audio and visual connections, Kuryakin was lacking. It was a transparent attempt to gloss over their previous night, and an opportunity for Kuryakin to prove his commitment to the mission, despite his personal upsets. 

Solo supposed it wasn't the worst idea to allow Kuryakin the time to amass a new fantasy rather than confront unparalleled tragedy. But his compliance came with a catch: he ordered room service. And it was early, yet, so he'd take it in bed. 

Wordlessly, Kuryakin dragged in a chair from the living area and placed it at the side of Solo's bed, opposite Solo and his anticipated meal. He swept a hand over the mussed sheets, smoothing a place for their work. He did not remark on how unusual it was for the side not to have been slept in--with his luck, Solo would be quick with a comeback ("Sweet, simple, innocent Kuryakin. It's rather preferred that your guest sleep on top of you.") or worse, he'd make mention of how Kuryakin intruded on Solo's evening, hence its deviation from form. 

It was a bright morning compared to the dreary, rainy night. Light poured in through the windows and Solo was tempted to throw them open. He settled only for drawing back the blinds. The various platters and dishes in his breakfast order were drawn into the morning; his coffee seemed to swallow the sunlight and glow even more warmly in shades of red, orange, and gold. Even Kuryakin accepted a cup.

“These are lovely,” Solo said, and collected the spread of photographs before Kuryakin began to mark over them with a felt-tipped pen in his shaky English script. Solo dusted flaky croissant crumbs off his fingers and examined one photo in particular--he remembered the day, dining with wealthy arms dealers at a chic restaurant stood atop Lebanon’s highest waterfall. Kuryakin’s photo was angled from far below, and caught a deceptively charmed Solo, sunglasses hung on his linen shirt, tugging it low to reveal dark hair and a tanned chest. “You caught my good side.”

Kuryakin did not so much as blink. “I used a wide lens.”

“I have an eye for art, you’ll remember.” Solo snatched the tiny loupe tool of Kuryakin's--his personal item, if the sharp look he served Solo was any indication--and further scrutinized the picture. “Yes, these are good. They speak to a sensitive soul.”

Kuryakin huffed, not fooled by Solo’s pronouncements and blatant teasing. But his gaze lingered on his own photos as he searched for what had caught Solo’s eye. There were faces, some smiling and wholly unaware, others--Solo's--playing ignorant to the fact that they were being watched. There were handshakes and hands clapped over shoulders, the spellings of a deal. Kuryakin saw crime, not art. 

“I do not see it.”

“Of course not. You have no taste,” Solo said, then winked. “But trust me.” 

Kuryakin frowned at the picture as of if he could will a thing like artistry into making itself known to him. Then he frowned at Solo.

“Show me,” he challenged. He was not fishing for compliments; such a notion did not even cross his mind. Kuryakin intended to catch Solo in a lie, however well-meaning and pleasant it sounded giftwrapped between Solo’s lips. 

And as if he'd planned for exactly this--though, how could he? Kuryakin was purposefully diverting down some absurd path--Solo fell right into an easy cadence, speaking to matters of _perspective_ and _framing_ as his fingers traced the portion of the image stained black with the unfocused backs of tree leaves. He pointed out the blinding white split of waterfall, citing _movement_ and prattled on about _negative space_ and _form_ as if he wasn’t wholly aware of how great a fool he was making himself out to be. 

Proving that _fool_ wasn’t in his vocabulary at all, Solo’s last act was to point to his own face in the photo. “And, well, what’s more essential to art than beauty? How do you explain capturing exactly that?” 

“There are no words,” Kuryakin deadpanned.

“Face it, Kuryakin. You have a gift.” Solo's deft hands flittered through more of the photographs, but he came back to--and settled on--just his favorite. He tapped it twice with his index finger and, without irony, instructed Kuryakin to “Keep this one.”

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. “For my portfolio, Solo?” He raised his pen, moved like he meant to mark up the photo, but slid it away, instead. The fat tip of his pen found another, and he circled the face of the Frenchman with whom Solo had been orchestrating much of his business. 

While Kuryakin went about the meticulous work of attributing times, dates, and meeting places in his messy script on the backs of each image, Solo entertained himself with picking over the fruit tray and Kuryakin's rejected photos. He came across the shot Kuryakin took of the dining couples in the cafe. Upon closer inspection, the brunette was no twin of Gaby's. One of men, all broad shoulders and dark hair, however, could pass for Solo's brother, if he'd had one. He even sported a strong jaw like Solo's own, and the smile that rested upon it was easy and assured. 

More interesting still, while the girls each shouldered the touches of men, the brunette and her blonde companion were discreetly holding hands under the table. 

"Scandalous," Solo observed, and he smiled when Kuryakin looked at him in question. "Satsuma?" he asked as he plucked a fat orange from the tray.

A phone call on their private line disrupted their task. Kuryakin scrambled across the room to answer it. They'd twice had word from Waverly during their mission, but Solo saw the way Kuryakin's face brightened and he knew it was Gaby on the other line. He asked her something in Russian, and she answered back that _yes,_ she kept up with her lessons even in Kuryakin's absence. But she found her indignant tones could best be conveyed in English--sharp, shrewd little language that it was. 

"How am I--? It was a bump on the head, Illya! A month ago!"

When she continued, "I had a scotch on the plane and was fine within the hour," it dawned on her colleagues that she hadn't been on leave at all.

"You ran another operation," Kuryakin surmised, accepting without question Gaby had done just that. What remained was an answer as to why he and Solo should be kept away from it. "Where?"

The hand at his side drew itself into a tight, white fist before unfurling, slow, creeping like an unearthly creature. Solo watched the gesture with interest; it wasn't the nervous tic he recognized and knew better than to dismiss or diminish. This was Kuryakin managing his fears, not succumbing to them.

"One of my many projects," Gaby said coyly. A wrinkle went through her voice as the signal cracked and fell flat a moment, then hummed back to life. "You don't tell _me_ everything. Why should you be owed such a courtesy?"

Kuryakin glared at Solo--needlessly, Solo felt--before he answered, "I tell you-- _things."_

Gaby laughed brightly. "Nothing to worry about, my dear. Deep cover work. Real boring stuff. Dismantling international financial systems and the like." 

Solo gave Kuryakin to look as if to say, _Right up your alley, comrade._

Gaby continued, "I spoke to Waverly and he agreed--Illya could manage the surveillance detail. What good was I when these men wouldn't possibly let me close to their business?" 

"Of course," Kuryakin said, and prompted no more from her. 

Gaby seemed to sense something was wrong. She kept her tone sharp, like the words were cut open from a smile she was wearing. "I'll see you boys at home. Happy travels."

Solo did not even wait for Kuryakin to hang up the receiver--much less return to his seat--before asking, "Are you upset because she kept something from us? Or because she does that an awful lot."

"I am not upset," Kuryakin said, and took care in his steps across the room, as if any movement out of turn could cause irreparable damage. 

_He’s becoming self-aware,_ Solo mused, and found himself smiling even as Kuryakin furthered his point towards an unpleasant place. 

"Gaby is right. Her talents are wasted playing my wife."

"The original cover work only called for a _companion,"_ Solo pointed out, and was perhaps a touch too eager to make this distinction. 

"We are in Lebanon, she is my _wife._ We can’t all be Americans.” Kuryakin frowned and searched for the equivalent: "Same if in your... Alabama."

"You two the happy couple--what does that make me?"

"What are you," Kuryakin agreed dryly, "Yes. I ask myself that every day." 

Kuryakin returned to his task, and Solo watched him for a moment--flipping over photographs, checking information and faces against one another--before spying the time. It was very nearly noon, and time enough that he ought to dress himself. 

“We did good work here,” Solo said. With frustrations mounting from every direction--his past, his future--Kuryakin looked as though he needed reminding.

The giant took in a whisper of a breath and held it. Unbeknownst to Solo, Kuryakin was doing his damndest to remind himself of his position: Solo’s partner, not his adversary. “We started good work.” 

“I think Claude is on board.” Solo finally threw off his bed sheets and stood, stretched easily in his bedclothes. “I think we can move faster, maybe make a phone call instead of a follow-up visit, and return for the kill.” 

He pulled his undershirt up over his head and tossed it aside. It landed atop Kuryakin’s work, and the Russian only spared a swift glance upwards, as if he wasn’t certain Solo wasn’t just collecting things to throw at him. 

“We have the incriminating evidence, taped conversations and verbal agreements,” Solo disappeared into his walk-in closet--unlike Kuryakin, he had not yet packed his belongings--and chose a dashing three-piece suit of a blueish gray, with subtle plaid detailing. He’d forgo the tie--they were only due for their return flight today, after all. No need to be over-inspired. Rather than change in the closet, he returned to his bedroom, and to his guest. 

"If I wire, say, only a half of what I've promised him, but do so early, we could have this wrapped up by summer. The sooner the better." As he spoke, Solo drew on a white dress shirt--the very one Kuryakin had damaged, then dutifully repaired. 

A smile spilled across Kuryakin's face, and he shook his head of it, bemused. "It is as if you think war will not find these people,” he said, and spared a moment to wonder which was more useless: having this conversation with a half-dressed dandy, or having it with an American. "So we stop these men, these guns. The routes are there. The means, demand, opportunity."

Solo dropped his pajama pants and traded them for slacks. "You speak as though we've done nothing."

Kuryakin stared hard at his photos. They showed men of wealth and privilege, the kind it takes to purchase a war and not suffer its consequences. "We have only stalled the inevitable." 

A snug vest with a silken, sleet-gray back complemented Solo’s shirt and suit pants. As he buttoned it--each notch well-tended by Solo’s familiar hand--he spoke, his assured tones loud despite his proximity to Kuryakin. Solo often did that: spoke in stilted pronouncements when he desired to distance himself from a truth. “You know, nobody put a gun in my hands until I was eighteen. Even then, it scared the shit out of me.” 

“I was nine,” Kuryakin said of the same feat. “My father taught me how.” Then, he let his large hands sweep over and collect his photos; the work was done, as Solo had said. Kuryakin felt a sudden surge of embarrassment for having stayed as long as he did.

“Seems unnecessary,” Solo remarked, but his attention was elsewhere. He was choosing between pocket squares: the same blue as found in the delicate lines of his suit, or a splash of contrasting orange? He caught Kuryakin--mid-departure--staring at him in the mirror. “How coordinated is a nine-year-old?”

“Russian children are very coordinated. Is natural.” Kuryakin stalled at the door to Solo’s bedroom, and watched as he chose the cut of handsome blue fabric. “Perhaps is when he began stealing from the Party.”

It was a quiet admission, one neither asked for by Solo nor demanded by the merits of their conversation. It was simply offered. 

“He knew what was coming and wanted to prepare you," Solo surmised, and Kuryakin did not contest him. 

“He was a good father," Kuryakin said, firm, and he readied himself for discourse or worse. 

"I had a good father," Solo remarked while slipping into his indecently snug suit jacket. He extended his arms as if seeking Kuryakin's approval of the look, but received only a blank expression in return. "Sort of kills your theory about formative parenting, doesn't it?"

"The exception that proves the rule,” Kuryakin said. “Strange how things turn out."

Solo grinned. "Was that a joke, Peril? What is that, _two_ now?"

Their last afternoon in Beirut proved an ideal one. The skies, sea, and mountains conspired to provide a cool day, shared by sun and clouds alike. They walked comfortably around the city, enjoying sights that had previously only been the backdrop to their true purposes. They walked past the great, teal-topped Blue Mosque, and watched as believers filled in for afternoon prayers. Solo and Kuryakin did not talk, except to agree on a place for lunch. 

By their afternoon's end, Kuryakin looked as though he had words lodged under his tongue, things he desperately needed heard but could not bear Solo for his audience. Solo took little offense; Gaby's call was one his colleague had longed for. Although he was of the staunch belief that nothing had yet transpired between his colleagues--and concerning the delay, Solo could not fathom its reason--there was something indisputable about a woman’s spirit, and the unspoken truth that any lady would know and understand loss more than most. 

Though, it stood to reason that Solo’s immediate suggestion of foul play and an opportunity for defection set a fairly low bar for Ms. Teller. 

"My treat," Solo offered, flashing a checkbook emblazoned with the name of his cover. He'd worked his way through a tidy sum of it, but there was space--and funds--yet left to treat his partner. "Work expenses."

"Thank you," Kuryakin said, too quietly, too quickly. And Solo knew the sentiment was wholly divorced from the meal.

Solo did not smile. He caught Kuryakin's gaze and nodded, just the once. "Of course."


	3. Chapter 3

On the top floor of an audacious New York City skyscraper, behind a myriad of steel walls and bullet-proof glass interlocking to protect U.N.C.L.E headquarters from discovery, Illya Kuryakin sat with his back to Director Waverly as he spoke in his clearest Russian over a private line to his KGB handlers, asking them for special permission to return to Russia and visit his mother's grave. It was not granted. 

Waverly’s position on the matter did not sway the Russians to Kuryakin’s favor, and Kuryakin left the office, face hot, ears ringing, with Waverly’s uncertain apologies at his back. 

Kuryakin did not share this news with Solo, who only gathered that the request had been made--and summarily dismissed--when he spied Kuryakin in Gaby's office, sat on her sleek white sofa. She was holding his left hand with both of hers and neither was speaking to the other. 

Solo was reminded of Kuryakin at his hotel room door, that slumping figure who never looked quite like himself when he was bending to another’s will. Of course, he would gladly bend for Gaby. Bend and break and shatter himself for Gaby Teller. Solo could not deny her charms, for they resided in every part of her: a sharp mind, quick wit, ferocious will, capable hands, and a beauty that heightened all the rest.

She wasn't, however, overly kind. Solo knew women who were, as they often left his bed in the morning, scandalized and a touch hurt. Gaby wasn't so inclined towards pity--for herself or others--so it proved a monumental surprise when she caught Solo watching them, yet did not immediately shoo him away, or otherwise expose him. Her favored ponytail hairstyle made it unable for her to shield her own expression, and so the pained look on her face, indicative of a private hurt, was made public. 

Slowly, she raised Illya's hand--he was always Illya, to her--and kissed the knuckles sweetly. Kuryakin startled at the act, but collected himself. 

It was a blow Solo did not think in time to brace himself for; it hurt and elated him in ways he could not name, because in no small measure Solo was sure it was a gesture on his behalf, issued through Gaby.

She was always the considerate sort. Even when she'd had to betray Kuryakin to the Vinciguerras, she'd given him time to successfully escape without mortal wounds incurred from vicious dogs.

_Considerate._

It worked for Gaby. Solo thought he'd give it a shot. 

\- 

Kuryakin was quiet the next month as he tried, in his mind, to right himself with the demands of his nation and the ache in his heart. 

Even if he hadn’t seen Gaby consoling their Russian friend, it would not have escaped Solo’s notice that Kuryakin had not deviated from their work. No disappearance, however minute, was won. All of Kuryakin’s time was accounted for--easily so for any man, much less a spy. Kuryakin himself made it simpler: he did not keep an apartment in the city, but stayed in U.N.C.L.E headquarters, sleeping on a small cot in his office. For weeks, Kuryakin did not leave New York--let alone Manhattan--so truly, Russia was out of the question. 

Solo thought Kuryakin did this on purpose: he made himself seen by those he suspected of following him, and those he knew could be bought. It was nothing nefarious--just a simple word of confirmation from a bodega worker that a tall blonde man, built like an ox, favored a particular brand of cigarette and often visited to make such a singular purchase. 

They ran the odd mission, simple tasks requiring discretion or the particular skillsets afforded by their partnership. New York City was an ideal hunting ground for petty criminals and doom-seekers alike. Solo orchestrated break-ins while Kuryakin muscled any opponents. Gaby gathered intelligence and, more often than not, drove the getaway car. Despite the late nights and long hours spent in one another's company, they never again spoke of Kuryakin's loss, the softness it drew from Solo, or indeed the tenderness it prompted between both men. To share an embrace was a highly particular thing; it had to be both asked for and given. 

They were parted from Gaby again with their plotted return to Beirut. Having previously set themselves up for connections, they too played a part in the raid, and were arrested. For good measure, they even spent a day in jail. 

Now, they were not to show their faces--normally an order Solo would disregard ("Anyone who’d recognize us is in jail--the city has never been safer"), but orders came from higher-up, and the reason for a duck-and-cover approach was warranted. 

There had been a breach. 

Information was attained--and pilfered--from U.N.C.L.E headquarters, the extent of which was still unknown. 

It was such a thing that their plans for departure were halted, and their fates sealed in the St. George hotel until further word came to free them. 

At least, it was a truly grand hotel--Beirut’s best--where nothing in the lush little room was itself from the City, or even the country. The sweets were Turkish, the furniture Italian, the wine French and aged, the sheets on the single neat bed Egyptian and new. ( _Languishing,_ Solo thought of the sheets. They were wasting at every corner of the bed without any spirited use. Egyptian cotton had some discernable bounce to it, he recalled fondly.) Even the band playing the occasional set in the lobby was--if Solo's ear could be trusted--a small troupe from Brussels, delightfully influenced by American jazz. 

The glass bottles of Coca-Cola chilling in ice were all-American, and a treat not all of the other rooms have. Solo was granted them for flashing his teeth and the kind of American cash that caught all eyes. Solo opted for a stiffer sample--vodka, a half-empty bottle swindled out of the kitchen during his and Kuryakin’s sneaking entrance into the hotel itself. Solo did not voice his threat to drink it all, but Kuryakin was very aware of how much Solo had lifted from the bottle, and how much he was owed in return. Ashamedly, Kuryakin drank a soda, having developed a taste for them in America. He’d never bought one himself, but Solo kept a tidy stash in his Manhattan office. 

Solo's office was particularly pleasant, stylishly furnished, and laden with hidden contraband. Ms. Teller was first to barge in, to complain that his view was better than hers, and secondly to bring Kuryakin into the fold. He confirmed her opinions on the view.

And much to Solo’s growing amusement, Kuryakin would also find unique--and increasingly less subtle--ways of asking if whatever particular fancy Solo was partaking in, whether it be a new oriental rug, thick and luxurious under his feet, texture as rich as its cherry meat color; a fine bottle of imported wine and accompanying cheeses; or a new piece of art for his ever-changing preferences… was it, in fact, stolen? 

Solo would entertain Kuryakin’s attempts at courteous inquiry, but answer him the same, every time: “Oh, Peril. Surely you know by now I needn’t steal what I can acquire by other means?” 

The words--always spoken with a wry smile--meant Solo traded in charm and wiles, and took from people their sense as they looked openly upon his handsome face. 

Yet, the evening had come to an uncomfortable standstill as Kuryakin demanded quiet. The great, hulking Russian was hunched over the transponder, impatiently seeking word from the world outside their hotel room. The view from Solo's place sidelong on the couch was of shoulders in a threadbare undershirt, sweat-dampened blonde hair curling at a harshly sunburned neck, and jerking radio antennae. 

Kuryakin wasn't much for the heat, though he never voiced his complaints. A month since their departure had brought the open mouth of a sweltering summer to Beirut, and even just the few hours spent in an open jail left their mark. Solo was unbothered by the thralls of summer--rather delighted, even. It shortened women’s dress and stole the buttons from men’s shirts, doing half of Solo’s job for him.

It surprised him that he hadn’t seen Kuryakin in such a state, given the close quarters they often kept. It surprised him doubly that he should like to remedy that. The slackened, sodden shirt stretched thin across his broad shoulders left little unseen, and even prickled a telltale pink, indicative of the naked skin beneath it. Yet it was a half-measure only, and Solo never did anything by halves. 

“You’re burned,” Solo observed, and next spoke through a mouthful of gooey Turkish sweets. “Ah, forgive my wording.”

Kuryakin waved a dismissive hand. “I can’t control the sun.”

“You Russians haven’t figured that out, yet?”

“Soon, soon.” Kuryakin made delicate use of the radio signaling, searching for word along secured U.N.C.L.E lines. “You cannot rush perfection.”

They fell into a silence, because while Kuryakin was not awaiting new orders or relaying word, he had only an earful of static. It claimed his attention and he shushed Solo for every bored sigh made out of turn. 

It was the lack of details that unnerved him. Waverly himself called to inform Kuryakin and Solo of a security breach at U.N.C.L.E's Manhattan headquarters, a matter of some serious concern, but of little consequence to two agents thousands of miles from the city.

Kuryakin was not as quick to dismiss their place in the matter. “And yet, you called.”

“Yes, well,” amiable as ever, Waverly had brushed off Kuryakin’s concerns. “It’s my upbringing, I’m afraid. Polite to a fault, we Brits.”

Nevertheless, it was the breach that consumed Kuryakin’s attention. Through rerouted phone calls and cryptic messages alone, he established that no one was injured or killed, first--a necessary inquiry, given that Gaby was there, now. Second, there was no great plunder of the U.N.C.L.E archives. 

“A targeted mission,” Kuryakin determined. “Reconnaissance work. For a hit job, perhaps.”

“Mm, perhaps.”

“Are you not concerned?”

Solo only tipped his head back, exposing his throat to Kuryakin. He looked out the window at the glittering Mediterranean, which surrounded the hotel on three sides. 

“I love the St. George,” Solo announced, unprompted. “Wish we’d stayed here last time.”

“It is gaudy.” 

“It’s a classic. Of a Parisian design, if I’m not mistaken. And I’m not.”

“Gaudy _and_ overrun by diplomats.” Kuryakin turned his back on Solo again, and put his ear to the receiver, and found it still, _tauntingly_ silent. “I don’t know why we are here, now.”

“Sentimentality,” Solo claimed, though of course it was initially due to proximity to the jail, and the fact that they shouldn’t be seen as free men when their compatriots were being carted off by international forces. It was only due to the breach that they remained at the St. George, still. Solo sampled another of the sweets on display and chewed thoughtfully. “I met a very nice girl here, once.” 

Out of sight, Kuryakin pursed his lips and asked plainly, “How is it that you can possibly recall?”

“I never forget a pretty face,” Solo grinned. He was pleased with Kuryakin’s teasing; it showed the man was not so entirely bogged down with either this new threat, or his old hurt. “Speaking of, that jailer wasn’t very kind with you, was he? You’ll have quite the shiner in the morning.” Solo dunked his fingers in the chilly waters of the champagne bucket housing the Coca-Colas, and flicked droplets at Kuryakin’s bare neck. “Ice it, won’t you?”

Forgetting his sunburn, Kuryakin clapped a hand over the offending wetness. Pained but too prideful to show it, he gritted out: “There is no need. I do not play your parts.”

“True. But I have to look at you, don’t I?”

Kuryakin shifted in his seat at the desk. “You do not.”

“Come now, Kuryakin. You are a vision.”

Silence sank over the room like a wet tar. 

From a blue and white porcelain bowl, Solo sampled a dried fruit slice dusted with sugar. "These are really very good." He sampled the fig, lime, papaya, apricot, and more. After a time, he sighed. "Those were really very good." 

“You’re going to get fat.”

“Will you buy me a patou?”

Kuryakin huffed something very near a _laugh._

It gave Solo courage, which given his attitude was often mistaken for pride. 

“If you’re quite finished listening to empty air,” he spoke smartly, “Will you entertain a question?” Solo watched Kuryakin’s great shoulders rise and fall--just an inch--in acceptance. “Your request to return…” Solo paused to watch those same shoulders stiffen and set. “Did you happen to ask after the Sergey Grishin affair? The KGB’s part in staging it?”

Kuryakin spun around, his face red, but not from any burns. “Because as I ask for favor, I should make accusations?” The color then drained as if Kuryakin was frightened by his own words. He masked his fears and drawled, “Excellent plan, Cowboy. It is wonder the CIA only bought you for fifteen years, when you would sooner run your mouth for fifty.” 

If further devastating words laid on his tongue, Kuryakin swallowed them. He had finally got through to a kindly secretary in their Manhattan offices, who spared some explanation: personnel files were stolen, and all acting agents were instructed to lie low until the items could be recovered. It was little more than Waverly had first shared, but it was no small thing to hear it again.

With their orders reaffirmed, Solo and Kuryakin drank from the dwindling vodka supply in preparation of their wait, however long it would be. Kuryakin drank readily and well, which did not mask his fraying nerves. The breach in security and theft of classified details was a dangerous spectacle, placing more than mere missions in precarious limbo. _Lives_ hung in the balance. Solo’s unperturbed, downright _cheerful_ disposition served to anger his partner, who was swift to remind him that not every agent's dossier read like the American dream. 

"The absurd wealth won solely by theft," Kuryakin specified sharply, then remembered his gifted place in Solo’s own country. "Gaby's," he gave as an example, "Marks her as a target for Nazi sympathizers who believe she's gone against the tide and wronged the cause.” 

Solo sat up and dusted his fingers of the grains of sugar leftover from the sweets. "I do not worry because I know for a fact that our files are in the safest, most capable of hands."

Kuryakin’s head snapped to attention. " _You_ stole the files?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Solo said brightly--albeit, loudly, so as to hear himself over the Russian’s mutterings of _Treason! The fool breathes it like air!_

As Solo stood and crossed the room, he continued to speak. "In fact, I stole _our_ files, some time ago. And easily, I might add! Really, I was doing U.N.C.L.E a favor, showing Waverly the flaws in his security protocols.” He stopped at his suitcase: lightly packed, but treasured still for the items it kept secreted in a hidden compartment. "Clearly, I was right." 

Kuryakin stood also, propelled by anger that affixed to his bones like steel. Or so he told himself. Interest, too, carried him upwards. “Of all the idiot, _pompous_ \--” 

“Clever,” Solo prompted. “It was quite clever. And considerate.”

Kuryakin raised an accusatory hand to Solo, and refused to let it waver even as Solo drew from his case thick files, each secured with a knot of twine. They hardly seemed as dangerous and precious a thing as Kuryakin knew them to be. 

His voice thick, Kuryakin said, “You look very pleased with yourself, but you have _no reason to be._ No reason at all. Spiteing your superiors is no game to be won--it is so designed that you lose, Solo. Every time, _every_ \--”

The offer--a simple, “Do you want yours?”--silenced Kuryakin. 

Solo returned to the center of the room at a leisurely pace. He set his own file on the edge of the couch nearest his partner, but fondled Kuryakin’s file, testing its weight and slowly unknotting its twine enclosure. 

“If I give it to you, it’s a gift,” he started to re-knot the twine, “A gift once stolen, and no, no, no, that just wouldn’t do. What of your sensibilities?” Solo’s voice climbed upwards and tumbled down, as though crank-operated. Illya had watched American newsreels, and he thought they did a genuine disservice to the entire lot, making the rest of the world think Americans all sounded like complete idiots. “If you win it, however,” Solo trailed off. 

“A gamble?” Kuryakin was rightfully uneasy. 

“A gentleman’s wager.”

Kuryakin weighed the glory of his prize with the very real possibility that he might not win it. Without blinking an eye, he suggested, “Chess?”

“Give me a fighting chance, here, Peril.” Solo dropped Kuryakin’s file atop of his own. “Backgammon?” Solo tilted his head back towards his suitcase. “I bought a set in the bazaar this morning.”

Solo took Kuryakin’s lack of a refusal as a resounding _yes,_ and was prompted to recover the item. 

It struck Kuryakin, finally, that the tone and cadence of voice adopted by Solo may have very much been an affectation, but also a disguise, the sounds of wealth and education where, really, there were only stolen goods and self-taught trades. At any rate, Kuryakin thought he sounded like the KGB sect who were intensely educated in the ins and outs of American culture so as to successfully infiltrate and serve the Soviet Union’s needs in the American ground war. 

They were trained for years in language alone--a luxury in which Kuryakin himself could not indulge. His skills, strength, and youth were essential. His KGB handlers had told him as much: _we cannot waste you on a good education._

Still, Kuryakin thought they tried too hard. There was an ease to the English he heard from tourists on the streets of Rome or Mexico City. It was nothing like the exacting tones of radio personalities or, indeed, his own partner. 

Solo’s voice had its charms. He sounded _so assured_ when he was being dishonest. Their marks ate it up, and even Kuryakin had come to welcome the challenge of finding truth in him, when so often he seemed bereft of anything other than certain lies.

When the backgammon game was laid before him, Kuryakin had to admit it was a fine set. Chocolate-colored wood pieces were hinged together with expert skill, and the tiny black and white pieces were polished like gems. He appreciated the craftsmanship, even if he thought the inlaid mother of pearl detailing was a touch garish. It swallowed up the peaked designs of the set as if the maker had spilled them from a goblet, and let the glittering flakes rest where they fell. 

Solo aligned the pieces and gave Kuryakin an encouraging smile. Kuryakin felt as though that very smile had led many to their downfall. 

In just a few moments, he saw that very end written across the board for him. 

Solo pouted at Kuryakin’s poor display. “Oh, this isn’t going well for you, is it?”

Kuryakin only set his jaw and continued to stare heatedly at his losing game. 

“A trade, then,” Solo proposed, and swiped up the dice, so that Kuryakin’s next turn was null and void. He handed Kuryakin a file--Solo’s own. “Information, that is. Mine first, as a show of good faith.”

Kuryakin felt the weight of Solo’s achievements--to borrow a phrase from the man himself--in his hands. His partner’s criminal record, CIA contract, and U.N.C.L.E file were all neatly secured in an accordian sleeve, tied with simple twine. 

“I do not understand…”

“Just--open it. Read the first thing that jumps out at you. Something interesting.” Solo readied himself with Kuryakin’s file for good measure. He unspooled the thread from the folder and took it around his finger in equal measure. For such a simple gesture, it was overwhelmed with grace, fraught with tedium. “Think of it as a… trust-building exercise.”

Kuryakin believed he could sooner think of it as a sandwich, for as little resemblance as the trade held to either. Still, he obliged. He let the collection of papers shrug out of the folder, and thumbed once through the stack, stopping at a page much like his own from U.N.C.L.E, summarising his life and skills in scant wording. 

“You were a backgammon champion," Kuryakin said dully, and again fixed his hard gaze on the game between them.

Solo grinned. “Interesting, right?”

Kuryakin may have been quick to anger and fast on his feet, but his facial expressions moved slow, like hardening cement. They occurred as though divorced from his being--like the sun rising or setting, Kuryakin was beholden to some other body whether he felt brightest joy or creeping sadness. Even his periods of dissociative rage seemed to _happen upon him,_ brought by an offending figure shouting in his face and shoving him well over some imaginary precipice. The small smiles often reserved for Gaby and little else were singular in their station as expressions engendered by his own self.

And here was another: abject fear. 

"Oedipus complex," Solo said, and his tone was halting as understanding followed his speaking those words. A line of confusion cut between his brows as he spared a half-second to look again at what he'd read from Kuryakin's file. The remainder of that second fell onto Kuryakin himself.

Kuryakin's hand--a great, reaching paw, really--cleared the table and descended upon the file like a set of deadly jaws. The papers and binding at the folder's head all buckled under his grasp, like he meant to cripple the very sentiment emblazoned on those papers, as well as the file itself. With a roaring terror that surged through his chest like air after drowning, he imagined every page held the same information. 

And suddenly, they were trapped in a place of breathless proximity as each man found himself unable to contend with what was discovered. It sat between them like a disfigured lump of flesh and teeth, something like the grim fates captured in Uncle Rudi's photo albums. Neither wished to lay a claim, but their ambivalence did nothing to resolve the matter. 

Kuryakin looked equal parts humiliated and furious, and Solo was reminded of a particularly studious fellow school boy who once pissed himself during a history exam. 

To see embarrassment color a body such as Kuryakin's was a bizarre thing. Pushed, beaten, and willed into being by the cause, his very form was a monument to the overcompensation of a struggling nation and a shamed son.

"It does not mean..." Kuryakin grappled for some other explanation, but came up short, as the truth was no better than the lie. His lips parted them pressed shut several more times, though nothing was said. Kuryakin would sooner surrender himself to a slow, painful death than speak against the words of his superiors, even as they existed, plainly typed, on a single piece of paper.

Solo took pity on him--a rather nasty habit he had come to favor, it seemed. “I gather there is some miscommunication. Perhaps an error in translation? You certainly don’t strike me as someone after his own mother. You seem entirely put out by dalliances of any sort. Mine and--theoretically--yours.” 

For Kuryakin's benefit, Solo took care to speak loudly while affirming his doubts. 

But Kuryakin conceded nothing. Defeated by a single written phrase over his own voice, he murmured, "I cannot say."

And it seemed to Solo that the hotel room was again a great and grand place, and he was its only occupant.

Solo reclined on the couch, putting just a hair more distance between himself and Kuryakin. The stitched designs betrayed their own beauty and felt rough under his fingertips. With the precision of the architects of old constructing extravagant mosques with geometric hearts, patterns of lilting wildflowers spilled out over matching pieces across the room. It colored not only his couch, but assorted ottomans and even the seat and backing of the chair upon which Kuryakin was sat. The uniformity was some small comfort and served to ground Solo in the space. Kuryakin, who seemed ready to bolt from his chair (if not the room entirely), was without such a sense. 

Solo smoothed his hands over the fabric slowly, methodically, until he saw in Kuryakin a tiny gesture towards the same. While one hand over-gripped his personal files, the other clenched the very edge of his seat cushion. There, he dragged his thumb across the hard stitching, subconsciously miming Solo’s soothing motions.

"Perhaps... You'll let me come to the correct conclusion." Solo set his gaze upon Kuryakin testingly, and Kuryakin endured. "A young boy, having lost his father at an early age… would naturally cling to his mother.” Cling, Napoleon supposed, was deeply, inherently the wrong word. Kuryakin himself looked struck by it, a lead pipe swung heavily into his middle. Solo course-corrected, saying, “At the loss of the genuine article, you saw yourself as the default protector.” 

It was a simple thing. Kind, even, the way Solo told it. And to some degree it was all true: Kuryakin was deeply protective of his mother, cold towards her suitors, eventually abrasive and outright violent when he came to see fully what was occurring. Men sought not her company, but her talents and beauty. And when her beauty had gone, they were still drawn by her reputation. 

Acting protector or not, Kuryakin hadn’t been able to stop any of it. He disappeared into KGB schooling and training, and to that effect was torn from his mother's side and existed solely for the cause his father had so egregiously failed. He did not see his mother for months at a time, and no departing plea for her safety and solitude could sway her long. 

There were still his father’s debts, after all. They had to be paid. 

It was abundantly clear to both men that Solo meant to give Kuryaki the benefit of the doubt. Kuryakin was further distraught to find that his hesitance to give the honest truth was not an effort to protect his own pride, but to spare Solo's. 

His crumbling defenses led him to steady his resolve with another gulp of vodka. His glass was empty, so he commandeered the bottle. In a rare show of desperation, he drank all of what was left. 

"The term,” Kuryakin said, his voice wet with vodka, "It describes little boys too close to their mothers. A _mother's boy,_ as you say." 

Solo smiled helplessly at Kuryakin's over-pronounced version of _boy._ “You’re well and grown,” he reasoned, because if that was the case it was an out-dated phrase for the KGB's purposes.

Kuryakin, though reticent, continued, “A boy… who likes his mother, who is very much _like_ his mother…” For all his stammering, Solo quickly realized the term "mother" was a stand-in for "woman," and “woman” meant little more than sex. Pity overtook Solo so quickly that he outright forgot to show surprise. Kuryakin added, dejected, “It is preferable to the alternative. Degenerate.”

Solo did not so much as blink out of turn. “So why use the boy’s term?”

Kuryakin reached for the bottle again, but stalled his hand when he remembered it was empty. He ducked his head slightly, meaning to obscure his response. “Because it--my condition--existed only in boyhood. Is done, now.” 

Solo gave an uncertain smile. “You’re done…” 

Kuryakin's heart pounded audibly in his chest.

"Yes."

Kuryakin was adamant that his was a sickness long-overcome. Solo had other thoughts on the matter--purely a matter of principle--but did not argue where reason wouldn’t be found. As much a spy as he was a thief, Solo took from Kuryakin’s professions something else entirely, and secured it in the back of his mind, where he had many hiding places. There, every shred of pertinent information kept its own lodgings. 

Solo saw many possibilities where Kuryakin had willfully blinded himself. It showed on his face--just a slight curl of his lips--and Kuryakin was quick to capitalize on it.

“You do not believe me.”

“No, no. Only the Russians would use coded language in their own secret documents. Makes perfect sense, really.” Solo wet his lips. “And if you say such proclivities left you in childhood… I believe you.”

Kuryakin dropped his gaze from Solo, and naturally it fell upon the ruined file in his hands. He realized at once what he’d done, and quickly made an effort to smooth his wrinkled file. Then, in a desperate rush, he opened it, his hands hot over each page as he searched. When he reached the last of the pages, he was wholly dismayed--heartbroken, even. 

Though he laid claim only to the watch, there was a second family heirloom--a prized photograph he believed to be kept in his file. Solo took a peek, of course. The image looked staged and bizarre: a mother draped in furs, her young child carrying himself with more pride than a six-year-old ought to know. The father was no shrinking man, but nor was he a great giant like his son would become. Theirs was a beautiful family, small but sure in their relations. Although Kuryakin was situated in the center, his mother was the true focus. She had sharp eyes and a small, private smile. Her blonde hair was illustrious and glowing against the pitch black of her mink shawl. 

Solo coughed, bringing Kuryakin’s attention back across the table. Pinned between his index and middle fingers, he held the photograph. 

“I had a feeling you might destroy something first, and search through the rubble, later. It is rather your M.O.” There were no more tricks when Solo handed over the prized item, which Kuryakin accepted with due care. “She was beautiful,” Solo said. “And _you,_ surprisingly, were adorable."

Truly, Kuryakin had been a handsome child. With what he now knew, Solo wondered how poorly still such an experience was for him. To be different was one thing--to be noticed being so was very much another. 

Kuryakin said nothing, choosing only to stare longingly at the image of his little family, once so pristine and whole. Solo took this time to remind himself that however Kuryakin once was as a child, there was something black and hard at the center of his being, something that the KGB was able to exploit for their own means, but was nonetheless always present. Lesser men died or fell away from their training in shame. Kuryakin only excelled. He was a skilled and efficient killer, and having a sweet, boyish smile since the start did not make that any less true. 

“This is not how I remember her,” Kuryakin spoke quietly and in Russian, ostensibly only to himself. But like so much else, his language was no secret from Solo, who Kuryakin now felt answerable to. “Older, of course. Sad. My father… it was more difficult for her.” It went without saying that the photograph captured how Kuryakin remembered his father: honest, stately, and well. His prized watch, too, was visible between his sleeve and the hand fixed over his young son's shoulder. “He was only my father. He was her dearest friend.” 

Solo was again reminded of the vein of kindness that hugged Kuryakin's steely core. It grew erratically, striking out at the damnedest things: friendship and the fears of others. It seemed strange that such a strict adherent to his cause--and a killer in that right--could be so sympathetic a being. 

“I find I am saying so much too often, but,” Kuryakin tore his eyes away from the black and white image of his mother, and saw that Solo’s gaze had readily met his own. He was at once glad not to have to wait for it, and uneasy with their newfound symmetry. Kuryakin willed himself not to shy away when he said, “Thank you.”

"Then it goes without saying," Solo told him. 

So that things might take a lighter turn, they began reading their files aloud--Solo started with a listing of the museums and private collections from which he'd pilfered Art and other valuables. Over a freshly started game of backgammon, they wagered for tidbits. Solo won Kuryakin's gold placing in the 1953 Russian Sambo championships. Kuryakin bested Solo for an answer to the obvious question: was the list of his targets a complete one? 

Solo only laughed in response.

In the midst of their playing, Solo ordered room service--a meal of steak and potatoes for himself, a second for Kuryakin despite his protests. After he’d sated his appetite, he wet it for something more.

“Here,” he said, collecting his file in its entirety. He slid it across the coffee table, careful of their emptied plates. “Read it, if you’d like.”

Kuryakin, after some silent debate, mirrored Solo’s offer.

“Interesting,” Solo hummed, “That you think I haven’t already read it.”

Kuryakin straightened in his seat. “I don’t _think--”_

“Stop right there,” Solo cracked.

“--I _know._ Idiot.” He worried his lower lip between his teeth momentarily, unsure of what Solo had come away with from their obfuscated talk. Then he added, "You've already heard the worst of it."

"I'll be the judge of that. Does it list your taste in music?"

But neither Solo nor Kuryakin took to rifling through the other's file. It seemed a secondary feature when sat across from the genuine article. True, the documentation was written in another's hand, and therefore an inherently different picture--in some ways more objective, in other ways, not--yet, neither man felt the desire to fact-check a simple conversation. 

“Do you have a mother?” Kuryakin asked, and Solo raised his eyebrows. “Still,” he added after hearing his own question and feeling embarrassed for it.

“In Oklahoma,” Solo confirmed, and any lesser Russian would accuse him of making up such a ridiculous-sounding place. “When I went off to war,” he waved a hand, dismissing that particular story, “My mother knew I’d never come back.”

“I promised mine I would return," Kuryakin said, and in doing so sank back into the dark place of mourning, the gaping chasm into which he felt perpetually in danger of falling. Bitterly, he summed up the last of her circumstances: “Her husband was a traitor and her son, a liar and something worse.” 

“And she’s a whore,” Solo pronounced, his tone as hard and unforgiving as Kuryakin's had been. “Isn’t that what they said? None of those things are true. And no right-minded person would mistake you for any of that.”

 _You are not these things. You are not solely defined by your shortcomings, perceived or proven or otherwise._ Solo wanted to impress this upon his partner, but did not. He knew Kuryakin would take his words only as misdirected kindness, and in believing he was not deserving, would therefore refuse to accept the sentiment. It likewise did not escape Solo’s awareness that such an opinion could apply to him, too. Worse--it could be inferred that he would have Kuryakin bestow it upon him in return. _That_ would be embarrassing.

At the very least, Kuryakin grudgingly accepted a return to the conversation. “You ran away to join the Army, yes?”

“Oh, Peril. A mother always knows when her son is plotting to run away. We said our goodbyes.” Solo pursed his lips. This next part, he’d omitted from his dealings with the CIA--indeed, from the past decade of his life. But sat in a hotel room on the very cusp of the Mediterranean, with only Illya Kuryakin for company, Solo felt its telling was finally warranted. “I sent her things, of course. Paintings I… picked up, thought she’d like. She still has a Monet hanging above the fireplace.” 

“You tormented her,” Kuryakin remarked glumly. “She wanted her son.” 

“Yes, well,” Solo smiled daringly, “There are many who want me."

Kuryakin scoffed. “You’re shameless.”

He leaned forward and speared one of the small potatoes on his plate. Rather than eat, he gestured with it. “Why do you not have… accent?”

“Sometimes, Peril, it behooves a man to forget where he’s come from to better see where he is going.” 

“Your veiled attempts to convert me, Cowboy, are, in fact, stark naked.”

“Then I should hope my body of evidence speaks for itself.”

Kuryakin seemed to blush, but Solo reasoned with himself that it was merely a flash of fading daylight cast throughout the room. The setting sun soaked red in the Mediterranean, but through glass windows it became fractured and delicately pink. 

“Oklahoma,” Kuryakin repeated, delighting somewhat in the inherent charm of the word--the round vowels and rolling _l_. It was quaint and, correspondingly, the complete opposite of Solo himself. “So. You really are a cowboy.” 

“Do shut up.”

Kuryakin smiled slyly. “Is that any way to speak to your parhd-ner?” 

“Just for that, _partner,_ I’m taking the bed,” Solo indicated the one piece of furniture in the room without a mess of crumbs on it. 

“Solo, wait,” Kuryakin speared another potato and extended his arm to hold it out as far as he could reach, then gave it a wave. “Aren’t you going to finish your tay-ters?” 

“I’m going in search of the potato’s more… illustrious cousin.” With a wink, Solo took his leave. 

In lieu of Solo’s antics, Kuryakin returned his attention to his photograph. His lighthearted demeanor and easy smile were short-lived, both overcome in quick succession by the realization that this was well and truly the last he’d see of his mother. 

When Solo returned to the room, it was with a sturdy bottle of vodka in hand. He came bearing an honest word towards Kuryakin’s quiet accusation, too. 

“I was a torment,” he admitted, and seemed to hold the drink as evidence. “My mother did not want me to go to war. She never wanted that for anyone. She has a soft heart.” Solo poured a helping for himself and Kuryakin, and they drank to shared secrets. 

“I think she’s always been a little thrilled with what came after, truth be told.” 

_That,_ Kuryakin thought privately, sounded more like the mother of Napoleon Solo. 

“This doesn’t leave the room,” Solo warned, then drummed his ringed little finger against his glass as if considering retracting his statement. He took a long drink to secure his intentions. “She used to say I was a _classic beauty,_ and perhaps there was some turn of fate that led me towards more.”

Kuryakin did not bark out a laugh at the term. Rather, he quirked a shy, bemused smile and let the statement stand. It was not up for debate; Solo was particularly handsome, favored with strong features touched with soft details: sharp cheekbones raised high, the lines of which pointed purposefully towards bowed lips. And set under a strong brow, his bright blue eyes were in turn impish and devastating. 

Kuryakin could not borrow those terms for himself. He was imposing, certainly. A shade of striking, if largely for his size. His eyes--someone once called them _pretty,_ then followed it up with _sensitive,_ but Kuryakin still did not know what to think about that. At the time he’d responded stiffly, _I have excellent vision. Yes._

Half-mumbled into the lip of his glass, Kuryakin said, “I doubt your mother always wanted you to be an international art thief.”

“Well, she certainly preferred it to my being caught and forced into the CIA.” Then, in a rare showing of exposure--per Kuryakin's behavior, it was all the rage--Solo gave his reasoning: "They once told her I was dead." 

Kuryakin stilled at that. It was a grievance even he had not suffered. 

Solo continued, unbothered, "Granted, after one particular mission and two weeks missing from their surveillance--a lovely little retreat for myself in the south of France, as it were--it looked as though I was. But I wasn't, and they never saw fit to send a retraction." 

Then, in the closest thing Kuryakin had seen towards Solo losing his cool, the man’s lip curled into the barest ghost of a snarl. It was gone the second Kuryakin was able to place it, returned to some undisturbed cover of Solo’s. And Kuryakin realized that Solo, too, was made of steel, but fashioned from it a softer visage. 

“It took me two years to get word to her proving otherwise," Solo finished, and then was silent. 

“I’ve never been to the south of France,” Kuryakin said, and they both grinned. It was in spite of themselves, some, but the vodka swept over any ill feelings like a warm hand, muting their better manners. 

The hour grew late and the natural light from the room extinguished, replaced instead by the yellow lamp on Kuryakin’s desk.

When Kuryakin returned the photo to his crumpled file, Solo balked. “Keep it,” he urged, but Kuryakin demurred. 

“No. It is not mine to keep.” It was a difficult choice, but one that Kuryakin felt was already made for him. It was gift enough that he was able to see a vision of his mother again, in lieu of the genuine article. And secretly, at that. 

He made an effort to smile, but none came. The warning look he served Solo, however, arrived without fail. “Besides. You are due to return both files. As you said, it was hardly any trouble at all to retrieve them.”

Solo thought of all the pieces that had to fall into place--timing Waverly’s absence was no challenge after stealing a daily schedule from his chief secretary's overnight bag; orchestrating a diversion in the hall was easily enough--ladies’ heels these days were of staggering heights, and a slickened floor was no great heist); feeding one of the security team bits of onion, which due to his allergies gave him stomach pains and ensured his routine absence from his post. “It was, perhaps, a little trouble.”

“I will help you, then.”

It struck them both that Waverly did not specify that all--or even many--personnel files had been stolen, only that there had been a breach. Surely, it was Napoleon's own antics that had HQ fretting over the extent of the damage, as they did not know how little had been taken. 

"Cowboy," Kuryakin started, his tone one of twinned warning and command. Solo waved him off, and finished his drink before leaving the room to make the call. When he returned, Kuryakin had fit his file between the coffee table and the flat top of a footstool, upon which he'd stacked weightier items. At first glance, Solo would have guessed Kuryakin was constructing some kind of idol, and by that measure was _extremely drunk._ But Kuryakin's movements were careful, methodical. A quick reassessment assured Solo that his partner was simply doing his best to flatten his crumpled file, and return it to its original state. 

Reasoned efforts or not, it didn't help him look any less foolish. 

"Perhaps you _should_ defect," Solo said, and his straying emphasis signaled that Kuryakin had perhaps himself voiced this option, previous, and not simply shared his directionless sorrow.

Kuryakin looked Solo in the eye. "Do not even joke like this."

"They could recall you from this posting for so much as doing what U.N.C.L.E asks of us, claim treason and send you to the gulag, or worse." Solo had seen the look on the young spy Grishin's face when he was told the Americans were sending him home. It was nothing shy of terror. He had no doubt Kuryakin understood it, then, and maybe shared it, now. 

"And when our nations fall into outright war, what then? Can I count on your Uncle Samuel to hold me in his favor? It is a fool’s errand, and not my desire." Kuryakin swallowed a rattling breath. "If I live another day, it is because my country grants it." 

The alcohol had made his loose with his words and much else; Solo languished on the couch, as if physically laid flat by Kuryakin’s nonsensical arguments. "Put it in the history books, Peril, the Soviet Union will fall! A country is nothing without its people, and it is they who lend a country its strength. Your people are lumbering under a great weight and--"

Kuryakin smiled tightly, but was obviously fuming. “You are a poor example. Convicted of treason, were you not? I’m surprised they let you live.”

Shame wasn’t a thing Solo allowed himself to feel. He’d had it hoisted upon him by his CIA handlers and compatriots. It was tantamount that he handled it well, easily, and always _with a smile._ He’d schooled himself quickly in that regard, but ten years was a long time to carry a thing and yet deny its very existence.

“Dissent is not disloyalty,” Solo said.

“Dissent is exactly that,” Kuryakin hissed. He eyes raked over Solo as if he sought to find reason in him, impressed upon his features or otherwise granted. He found none. “And both are suicide.” 

Solo goaded, “You sound like a believer.”

“You either decide your faith, or it is not much of a faith at all.” Kuryakin stood roughly, and in doing so sent his chair falling backwards onto the floor. “Is not your American way?”

“The faithful show contrition when they are led astray, and when they knew better.”

Kuryakin jutted a warning finger in Solo’s face, and it was well-understood that it could fast become a fist. “You are no priest, Cowboy.” 

“Happily so. But who better to speak to ill deeds than a sinner?”

“My-- _mother_ \--was no deed.” 

“You genuinely believe the KGB had no hand in her death?” Solo asked, and stood to match the Russian giant as best he could. “And the weeks they kept it from you, what do you call that? Oversight? A _clerical error?”_

“It does not matter.”

“Illya. Nothing should matter _more_ \--”

Kuryakin reared back and swept an arm over his desk, sending a decorative clock and the lamp hurtling to the floor. The glass visor on the lamp broke, but the bulb remained intact. The room was at once dulled, with the only light spilling onto the floor, glittering along the cuts and dips in the woodwork. A second later, that same firm hand collided with Solo’s chest and the American found himself forced backwards, laid out on the couch, with the air very much taken out of him. 

“I begged!” Kuryakin shouted overhead. “I begged to see--what was left, the pile of _dirt_ she is laid under. I do not know so much as the _cemetery._ The _city._ Moscow? Or did they do the service of returning her to her birthplace?” The air seemed to rattle between them as Kuryakin’s raised hand curled into a fist. Rather than pummel his partner, Kuryakin set upon him, caged his body over Solo’s and, so that there would be no lingering doubt as to whether Solo heard him, he roared: “I did not question their involvement because in my heart I know no less!”

He broke away, staggered one step backwards, then two. Below him, Solo was no worse for wear, wit only that perpetually indifferent look on his face that so aggravated Kuryakin. His sharp eyes traced along the softened view of Kuryakin’s face, and Kuryakin raised a hand there, imagining blood or whatever else might hook Solo’s interest. 

Kuryakin was then shocked to discover a wetness on his cheeks. He was more infuriated with this--another lapse in composure--than he was with anything Solo had said. He brushed a firm hand over his face and his shame. 

He should be used to this. Although their partnership was a successful one and they were less prone to raise a fist or a pistol to the other, their words cut like knives, blew holes through progress and left gaping wounds. 

“I am a fool to believe otherwise,” Kuryakin said, his words inescapable in nothing but a harsh whisper. “But you are a cruel man, Napoleon, to say so.”

“Illya,” Solo began, and for a moment he teetered on the cusp of a genuine and landmark apology. He squandered his turn, busying a hand over his own warm cheek and sweating neck, and said only, “I’m very drunk.” 

\- 

Kuryakin left the room after their argument, and wasn’t seen by Solo again until early the next morning. Hair blonde mussed and unwashed, clothes wrinkled and slept-in, he looked more now the part of the freewheeling artist he was meant to play. At a quarter to eight, he let himself in to take a shower and ready himself and his belongings for the flight back to New York. 

But he did none of these things, and was instead stalled at the little desk he’d been sat at the night before when he shoved Solo, shouted at him, and the two very nearly came to blows. There, next to pieces of the lamp he’d destroyed, Kuryakin found an impeccable rendering of the photo he surrendered to his file. It was an inked drawing, done by Solo’s own hand. The level of detail--even from an old, faded photograph--was astounding.

Her barely-there smile. Her keen, clear eyes. Kuryakin’s father and younger self were rendered in equal care, but his eyes were drawn irrefutably to his mother’s image. 

Solo emerged from the bathroom, clean and smelling like spiced cedar. His hair was a mass of slickened curls, and after drawing a hand through to tame them, Solo adjusted the robe to better conceal the bruise that had spilled over his chest where Kuryakin had struck him. 

“You are also a forger?” Kuryakin asked, before _thank you_ even came to mind.

“A hobby of mine,” Solo allowed. It wasn't in his file; they both knew that. 

“I will keep your secret,” Kuryakin promised. His eyes softened as he took in the image, and he returned once more to the much-visited well. “I--”

“Thank you,” Solo interrupted smartly. “I know.” 

“No. I wish to apologize. Last night…” he trailed off, and again was lost in the drawing. Then, with a ferocity that belied the sentiment, Kuryakin made himself heard, and in doing so somehow gutted his gratitude. “ _Thank you,_ Napoleon. This is a profound kindness. It reaffirms to me your weak heart and American sentimentality.”

“That doesn’t sound like the compliment you surely mean it to be.”

Kuryakin just smiled shyly at the drawing, then secured it in a small notepad inside his jacket pocket. His smile was marred by something else, and without looking at Solo directly, he said, “One might think you built a career on extending pity.”

Solo smiled faintly. “Not pity,” he said. 

Kuryakin parted his lips, ready to try again, but Solo cut him off. 

“Keep thinking on it, agent. You’ll get there.” 

They readied for their departure, and did not speak again until the hotel room door had closed behind them. 

“So. Where did you end up going last night?” Solo did not mention having waited up for his partner’s return. “Not the maids’ quarters, I hope? Or is there a trail of wreckage I can follow?”

“No,” Kuryakin answered promptly, and gestured with his fraying suitcase to the end of the hallway, where an ornate little table stood by a window. “Just here.”

“In the hallway?” Solo frowned. “Then surely you heard me scratching away all night, pen to paper?”

“I thought it was… something else.” 

Solo gave an indignant huff. “I can assure you, I don’t have a cock as pliant as paper.”

Stood before the elevator, Kuryakin battled a blush. The drawing seemed to burn white-hot in his breast pocket. “I am assured.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter got into what I'd initially wanted for this story--an exploration of the "Oedipus complex" remark we see on Illya's file in the end credits. Like!!! What!!! Maybe it's meant to be the real deal, but this is my take on it.  
> I have a few ideas of where to take this story going forward, but as with most everything I write, I have no concrete plans beyond "finish." Well, "finish" and "INCLUDE ALL THE TROPES."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who is reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! I really appreciate it. It's been so long since I jumped into a new fandom. Lucky for me, TMFU is a great one. :)

On a Sunday afternoon, all of New York City was treated to a warm day with a crisp breeze threading through it. The skies were deceptively gray, and great swathes of the city, wary of rain, stayed in. It afforded Kuryakin a quiet morning during which he could stretch his legs and take in the sights. His primary task was a visit to a bookstore. 

U.N.C.L.E headquarters were exceptional in their supply and diversity of newspapers, both national and world-wide. Kuryakin could read at his leisure on his off-hours spent in the penthouse offices, but generally preferred fictional novels for pleasure. He took his time perusing the stacks in a cramped corner shop, all the while avoiding the shopkeeper who routinely tried to push the unsold tomes of Dostoyevsky on him, after hearing his accent.

Kuryakin was comfortable knowing that, so long as he kept quiet, few--if anyone--in the city could place him for an outsider. His features could not readily mark him for Eastern European (let alone a communist), and his flat caps--while unstylish--were no crime. His height drew the odd glance, but he kept his head down like any good spy, and by that measure alone could be mistaken for a New Yorker. 

He didn't mind it. 

Kuryakin left the bookstore, his purchase in hand. He traded the change for the pair of sunglasses in his pocket, which he seemed now to wear more out of habit than anything else. He glanced around, thinking maybe he'd stay in the neighborhood for a time, station himself on a park bench if he could find one backed against a tree, sloped hill, or some other natural defense. Relaxing was a thing he only did by halves. 

He spied a small cafe across the street, a recent addition to the neighborhood where ready-made sandwiches and slaved-over coffees fed those who lived and worked nearby. The sandwiches were cold and the coffee, hot. In that respect, the cafe had its own simple charm, but held no allure to an outsider. It was not the sort of place an individual might go out of his way to patron, and its small selection of outdoor seating was often empty.

Kuryakin could not help but notice the sole occupant of a bright red chair sat under a small white table was a young man with thick shoulders and a familiar face.

It wasn't a chance meeting; nothing between Russian spies operating in the United States was ever left to chance. Still, it was unexpected, which led Kuryakin to quickly case the area for still more operatives. He needed only a glance, but was certain it had not gone unnoticed. 

The man waved him over. 

Kuryakin crossed the street and circled through the cafe before arriving at the patio, where he did not hesitate before taking a seat. Whatever was happening, Kuryakin knew his first order was to make it appear completely normal. 

"Very nice to see you again, Illya." Dmitri said in his perfect, practiced American accent. Last Kuryakin was aware, Dmitri called himself Tom Mueller, and he worked as a systems analyst on Wall Street. His sharp suit and slick hair spoke to this conclusion. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Neither have you, ah, Tom." 

It was a lie; Dmitri was rounder, and a distinctive gleam at the top of his head was evidence of thinning hair. 

Dmitri wasn't blind to what a decade had done to the two of them: Kuryakin's body had grown and filled out to meet his height, while his face remained boyish. The scar narrowing in on his eye was no new addition--a product of his childhood, if one believed the gossip--but it was lighter in its coloring, less ugly than Dmitri had remembered. Still, Dmitri had come out on top, because despite losing some hair he'd gained something else entirely: job security. 

He smiled, gestured to his bald spot and said, "It's stressful work."

"Yes."

Dmitri cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. He acted as though Kuryakin's response was genuine, and not simply the polite mutterings of a man sat in uncertain territory. "Is it?"

His was the typical, noncommittal speak every spy knew like a second language. Nothing was said too loud, too forcibly, or with so much as a spark of inflection. In terms of use within one's cover, it was invaluable, yet it made for maddening conversations.

Kuryakin sighed. "You tell me. You build farcical financial systems, I only disable atomic weapons."

Dmitri grinned and waggled a finger at his fellow Russian. Kuryakin noticed he wore a pinky ring like Solo did, but thought Dmitri's was distasteful and oversized. "You're funny, Illya. Is that a recent development?" His smile turned sinister. "Perhaps you picked it up from someone." 

"Perhaps I embezzled it."

There was gossip about Dmitri's current state, too. 

"Like father, like son."

Kuryakin went deathly still, and because Dmitri knew exactly the monster he was goading on, he stopped himself. 

"To be honest, I'm surprised you're not on your way back home."

"What have you heard," Kuryakin pressed, and was careful of his tone for any passersby. 

"Your partner," Dmitri said, more uncertain than Kuryakin was careful. He'd been out of the game too long, and was well-settled in his cover. Kuryakin did not doubt he did good work, stealing financial secrets for the Soviet cause. It was easy to become complacent, however, when the things a spy was tasked with stealing arrived hand-delivered to his desk. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Kuryakin felt his stomach drop to the ground. It was a mistake, a false line of bait, maybe even a test--but the sentiment alone carried with it a ruinous feeling of dread that took Kuryakin by surprise. He'd seen Solo just one day earlier, and to publicly meet his end in that time was-- _even for Solo_ \--unlikely. The timetable, coupled with the aspect of selling the proof, did not hold up. 

Still, Kuryakin found himself speaking through a hitch in his breath. "Explain."

The coffee Dmitri had ordered before Kuryakin joined him arrived, and any answer was further stalled by Dmitri taking a contemplative taste of his drink. Kuryakin felt the seconds pass as if a notch was carved in his skin to commemorate each one. 

"There are photos being shopped around--that's all I know." Dmitri smiled broadly, an American affectation he was taught to favor. Kuryakin noticed his teeth were whiter, straighter than they'd been in their shared youth. A gift from the KGB, perhaps, or something he treated himself to here in his host country. "Photos of a spy tortured to death. Word is, it's the CIA's best and, well. Your posting is no secret among certain circles." 

Even in English, Kuryakin thought Dmitri still spoke with the same slickness he always had, the kind that came easily with wealth and every assurance of maintaining what he had, and doubling his glory several times over.

"I heard our... superiors made a bid. Good publicity, and all that."

"Our work?" Kuryakin asked. Laid on his thigh, his index finger was drumming. 

"No, but," Dmitri paused to take another sip of his frothy cappuccino. "Since when has that mattered?" Breaking from their current line of conversation, Dmitri's face went to one of sly pleasure to put-upon upset. "Listen. I heard about your mother--"

"I have to go." 

His abrupt departure cost Kuryakin his recently purchased book--forgotten on the corner of the table--and any potential clue as to his mother's death. In that moment, nothing was more pressing--more _necessary_ to him--than finding his partner and seeing with his own eyes that he was alive and well.

\- 

It felt as though Kuryakin had only taken one left turn before arriving at Solo's midtown apartment. 

It was a place he kept off the books, having listed another location--a chic, subleased number in Manhattan--on all his documentation with U.N.C.L.E. There was little doubt that Waverly would be so easily fooled, but Solo ran enough interference between the genuine location that,in principle, he was not followed or otherwise disturbed there. Kuryakin was admittedly a touch jealous of his foresight in that respect. Though he was content establishing himself in the inherent security of the U.N.C.L.E officers, seeing Solo leave for a spell of genuine solitude each night--however long it lasted him--made Kuryakin ache with envy. One more than one occasion, those feelings even led Kuryakin to give chase after Solo himself. It was how he learned of Solo’s true place of residence and the fact that he was, rather unexpectedly, something of a homebody.

He’d been relaxing, a thing Kuryakin only interpreted by his dress: casual slacks, a simple white shirt, and socks. It was still a precise look, each piece exquisite in its simplicity and rendering. Solo's hair was touched by the wet curl of a recent, hot shower, and the clean scent of him reached the door before he did. It was only a Sunday morning, and yet Kuryakin would not have been the slightest bit surprised to see Solo decked out in a flashy suit, a woman on each arm, ready to conquer the city. 

Solo had a classic look to him, and although he dabbled in the latest trends, he sometimes wasn't built for them. He was fashioned instead like a Roman soldier--timeless, the basis on which all future generations would strive to meet and yet come short. Much like the doomed Romans, he had suffering written about him like a destiny.

“I don’t recall telling you where I lived.” Solo put a finger to his lips in a cartoonish expression of deep thought. "Though I appreciate you taking an interest."

"Then it is as I thought," Kuryakin murmured aloud, and heard himself as breathless. Then he snapped to attention and spoke plainly: "I think the film from your meeting with Gaby's uncle Rudi survived."

"Better that than Uncle Rudi," Solo replied coolly. He stepped to one side of the door, and gestured for Kuryakin to enter. "And, 'meeting'? Did it look like I applying for a loan? I thought we agreed, _Uncle Rudi's Wild Ride_ has a nice ring to it. I enjoy the whimsy."

Steadfast, Kuryakin remained in the doorway. “There are photos--”

“I have them," Solo said. He could see where their conversation was going, and though the potential to aggravate and torment Kuryakin was there in healthy supply, he knew better than to indulge. Finally, Kuryakin relented and took a tentative step into the apartment, and Solo was able to close the door behind him. "Or rather, I've paid a lot of money for what I was told were the photos." 

"You haven't looked,” Kuryakin said, his tone lost somewhere between relief for Solo's quick action, and aggravation for his potential grievous oversight. He stood ramrod straight, as if to leave Solo with the impression that he'd wage battle before accepting a non-answer from his partner. 

"It's not something I'm particularly interested in reliving." Solo's voice was tighter than he'd rather, and by that measure was a clear giveaway to his lingering feelings towards that tumultuous evening. Like he'd told the beautiful and deadly Victoria Vinciguerra, he'd been drugged before, taken and transported against his will, questioned mercilessly, denied fair treatment. But he'd never quite _suffered,_ not like that. Nor had he been placed in a situation such that there were no secrets to be won, and the only unknown was how much he could take. 

Without a doubt, people had made threats against his life--most often, the partners of one beautiful bedfellow or another--but it had been a very long time since someone made Napoleon Solo fearful. Worse still, those fears were less for the loss of his life--a foregone conclusion--but rather, his very sense of self. When was he a broken man? When would he finally give up and give in? These were not questions Solo wanted answered of himself, yet there they had been, stirring just under his seared flesh. 

Kuryakin frowned until he finally understood, and in a surprising show of sensitivity, he buried his voice in the collar of his shirt, looking down and away as he offered, "I will look. For you."

It was, in part, a reason to justify his presence in Solo's company. More selfishly, Kuryakin wanted very much to see an end to the terrible surge of panic he'd felt, believing for even a moment that death had found his partner. 

Solo's inquisitive eye skirted Kuryakin, unsure of what it was he thought to find there. Kuryakin's terms were not--as they so often seemed--an order. Rather, they were as they appeared: a genuine offer of strength where perhaps Solo was lacking his own. 

"Alright," Solo said, having summoned vigor enough that he _sounded_ confident, "But if I find out you're into that sort of thing, I'll be terribly disappointed."

Solo tucked away into the kitchen, first to relieve a steaming kettle on his stovetop. He proceeded to fix two cups of tea--some warm blend of spice and flavors Kuryakin was not familiar with. It was from his kitchen pantry, too, that Solo collected his recent purchase from its hiding place, folded over in an unmarked mustard-colored envelope and fit inside a large recipe box. It did not surprise Kuryakin that Solo would not take care with the photos. It was likelier still that he planned their destruction. 

Solo handed them over, envelope and all, and stood glaring over his tea, watching the color from the bags spill into the hot water. He listened with painful clarity as Kuryakin opened the package and inspected its contents. 

Kuryakin breathed a sigh of relief--not the response Solo would have had taking in those same images, to be sure. 

Solo turned, shoulders back, chest out, head cocked, the picture of nonchalance. "Well, what's the verdict? Did I get my money's worth?" 

Kuryakin only nodded. His eyes continued to inspect photograph after photograph. There were nearly a dozen, total. In the first few, Solo’s blue eyes were bugged, his face nearly unrecognizable for the shock and unfiltered pain held there. It made Kuryakin uncomfortable to look at, but he’d promised no less. By the fifth photo, Solo had summoned from within him enough grit and resolve to deny Uncle Rudi what he wanted: evidence of a tortured, mutilated soul. He set his square jaw and jutted it out defiantly, but there was still fear deep-set in his eyes.

In the subsequent photos, Solo seemed to rally himself against this base feeling, and tried to ward off the terror that came with the realization that by this treatment, his body would decay even as he still breathed. 

By the tenth photo, he’d simply closed his eyes. 

"You look very frightened. Very upset."

"Cut a man some slack. I was being tortured to death." 

"Did the CIA not train you for..."

"No. I suspect they wouldn't mind all too much for someone else to do their dirty work for them." Kuryakin opened his mouth to speak, but Solo quickly cut him off. "Please do not suggest I now _get_ training."

"I was going to say... I am sorry." Kuryakin's gaze fell back onto the images, where he had arrived at the last of the sordid collection. "Ah, you don't look so frightened, here."

Solo stepped forward and chanced a look. His gaze was set, hyperfocused, but relief was spelled across his brow in its smoothness. The tears budding at the corners of his eyes still shined, but they threatened to carry down towards Solo's tight smile, not the gritting expression in previous images.

"Hm, yes. That's after I saw you." 

Solo remembered, first, the evidence of Kuryakin’s approach in the form of a dazed, stumbling guard. Relief flooded his senses, and the ringing in his ears was suddenly a beautiful siren song. Uncle Rudi continued the frighteningly much-practiced monologue for his victims, but Solo was lost to anything until Kuryakin crept into the room and tentatively asked after his well-being. The following seconds were a blur of Rudi’s pleas for mercy, and Kuryakin all but tearing Solo from his confinement. 

More clearly than anything, Solo remembered those hands laid upon his person as if in religious revival. Solo did not see God so much as he narrowly avoided any such meeting, and he had Kuryakin to thank for that. 

First there were fingers in his hair, carefully unbuckling the leather headpiece, which peeled off his forehead smelling nauseatingly like burnt hair and cooked flesh. Kuryakin then freed Solo’s right hand, and addressed the binds across his midsection while Solo collected himself and set about what he could reach. When Kuryakin took a knee at Solo's side, though, bent over generously and released Solo's feet, it had almost made Solo too weak to stand.

Solo threw those memories aside, now, and reminded himself that what had happened to him hadn't ended there. The evidence was gathered in Kuryakin's hands.

"Speaking of," Solo took a sip of his tea. It needed to steep longer. "You look like you ran here."

Kuryakin brought a hand to his hairline, and found his hair damp with sweat. “I think I did.”

With his head still bowed towards the evidence of Solo's torture, Kuryakin missed the bemused half-smile that was meant for him. 

Solo rooted through his kitchen cabinets for honey. "So. What brought my little predicament to your attention?"

Kuryakin glanced upwards, then busied himself with returning the photographs to their envelope. “I... another agent. Russian.”

Solo leaned back against his kitchen counter and regarded his partner curiously. “Cheating on me, are you?”

He received a flat look for his attempt at humor. “It was unexpected.”

“This isn't your friend, is it?”

“No. I do not care for Dmitri.”

Solo snorted. He gathered his tea, as well as the cup he’d made for Kuryakin, and a sleeve of lemon biscuits. He wasn't proud about serving store-bought goods, but guessed Kuryakin would be even less likely to accept a homemade lemon tart, let alone allow for the forty-five minutes the recipe required. 

Arms full, he left the kitchen in favor of the living room. His intention for Kuryakin to join was only observed--and met--out of circumstance. It was a rather narrow kitchen; Kuryakin’s options were to take a sharp right out of the apartment, or carry on inside, otherwise Solo would have walked right into him.

While Kuryakin accepted a mug--and a biscuit, once prompted--he did not take a seat on the sleek, black leather sofa. Instead, he paced Solo's apartment, tea and cookie in hand, looking at the odd piece of artwork (a stark white bust of a Roman figure was pretentious in exactly Solo's style, and he had a matching figure in the kitchen, one that he'd outfitted with a few deep cuts and repurposed for a knife block) and the bookshelves, the fine bar set by the window, the television, the view. It was a nice set-up, though substantially less flashy than either Solo's office or the kinds of hotels he favored. 

_("I want to live in luxury,"_ Solo had once told him, _"That doesn't mean I can afford it. It's rather why I steal things.")_

Kuryakin could easily take stock of the few personal items littering the small, tidy space. There was an apron embellished with cacti, horses, and a western scene. The only plant was a great, sweeping fern stood in a (counterfeit?) Ming vase between the bookshelf and window. A framed photograph of infantry men stood propped atop the desk, although the wall above it was clean and open and bore the odd pockmark of a previous tenant’s attempt at homely living. That Solo had not made such a decorative leap himself was evidence he meant to move up from this location, and find something for his very own. Something legitimate.

As it stood, the place was decorated in an excess of detachment. 

His inspection led Kuryakin to the window. “Fire escape?”

“Of course,” Solo said. “And in a pinch, the bathroom window could prove a fine enough escape route.”

“Bedroom?”

“My, you’re forward.”

Kuryakin relieved a heavy breath through his nose, but when he followed up with neither a threat nor an outright assault, Solo felt compelled to retract his joke and coolly give a genuine answer. 

“There’s nothing for the bedroom. Just a nine-story drop.”

But Kuryakin hardly seemed to register that, either. The envelope of photos was still gripped in his giant hand--a thing that, under usual circumstances, Solo would be hard-pressed not to see as a power play. Yet, Kuryakin held little attention for Solo. He seemed drawn elsewhere, his eyes set on some unremarkable spot by the window, drawing slowly through the folds of the cotton drapes. They were a gray color, striped at the bottom in a pale blue. The large windows afforded the space an abundance of light, even for the cloudy skies. 

Much of Solo’s life had been an extended practice of trial and error. He erred less often, now, and had become accomplished in a great many things: soldiering, dealing, conning. Espionage was the least of his talents, if he was quite honest. Reading people, though, was a skill at which he truly excelled. Mapping out the minds and desires of others so that he could hold himself accordingly was at the very heart of all his enterprises--legal and not. 

Kuryakin should be proud; he afforded Solo more practice than he’d needed in a long time. 

So when Solo looked to where Kuryakin was looking, and took in the same unremarkable curtain, it was all as he’d planned. He sipped his tea. "You seem unwell." 

Kuryakin, who was still standing and staring, lost in the hazy golden warmth of Solo’s sunny apartment, murmured aloud: “Why should I meet Dmitri on the street, this day, when I have not seen him for nearly a decade? Why should he bring up your mistaken death, and suppose my returning to Russia?" 

"Honestly, that doesn't seem very cloak-and-dagger to me." Solo said, and found himself feeling very much like he had during their last day in Rome: like there was a Russian in the room with designs to kill him. He even spared a thought for angling towards one of the exits he'd just mentioned. 

Kuryakin did not miss his meaning. "If they wanted me to kill you, they would say so." 

Months ago, bruised and bullied by his superiors to bring a massive win for his side--the computer disk, secured when Kuryakin had taken it upon himself to kill Alexander Vinciguerra--Solo wasn’t then, and nor was he now, entirely sure whatever had grown between them was strong enough with withstand a direct order. An order that carried with it some silver bullet of redemption, no less. 

It was a split-second decision, presenting Kuryakin with the watch rather than two to the chest. And it was only after the fact that Solo considered all the possibilities: maybe Kuryakin would have pulled his weapon and choked. Maybe Solo would have drawn his own. Maybe Kuryakin would have done the deed, and returned to Russia a hero, disk in hand and a head full of fantastical secrets-- _aircraft carriers_ and the like. But Solo knew better than to question good fortune, however it found him. 

Consciously or not, Kuryakin did not speak to whether he would again disregard that order. He turned his head slightly, and followed the streaks of sunshine escaping the tight stitching in the curtains. He saw more sense in the gentle wafting of curtains against the breeze than he did in his own being. 

"I cannot tell what it is they mean to do with me. Am I still trusted? Is this only a punishment? A test?" 

His voice was weak, as if the mental weight of these questions was one he could no longer sustain. By withdrawing their assurances and trust, they'd crippled him.

“Do you want to return,” Solo started to ask, then corrected himself. _"Would you,_ after all this? These games they see fit to play with your life and your loyalty?"

"Of course." That it should even be a question set Kuryakin’s teeth on edge.

Solo was careful to conceal his disappointment, so when he toasted Kuryakin with his mug of tea, he did so with a gentle smile. "Then they should be lucky to have you."

Kuryakin looked away; as a rule of thumb, if he earned a compliment from Solo, it was because he’d said too much. It was an error he often made in Solo’s company. 

Kuryakin decided it was uncouth to simply set down the envelope and allow Solo to retrieve them. He drank substantially from his mug--more in an effort to quench his thirst after racing to midtown than due to any affinity for tea--before depositing it on the table. He then presented the package by hand so that Solo accepted it personally. 

Solo felt the weight of the photos in his hand, and was torn. He was glad to have wisely made the purchase, but was now considering its worth. "What would you do?" he asked to Kuryakin's retreating form, "If you were holding your imagined death."

Kuryakin stayed his departure. He folded his arms across his chest and considered the question, and smiled when he said, "If I was Napoleon Solo? Save it for a rainy day."

It was its own compliment, in a way. Kuryakin knew better than most that Solo’s mind was ever-active, that he plotted and planned and strived for his survival at every turn. The odd grandiose purchase--truffles, for Saunders’ wandering eye--was only the tip of the iceberg. Solo had lifes and deaths marked all around the world so that, if necessary, he could start anew. 

He’d never been handed an out such as this before, however, and the finality unnerved him. 

"But you would destroy them," Solo gathered, "If it was you."

Kuryakin faltered; Solo usually took gleeful pleasure in his jokes, however haltingly made. But here, Solo pressed for something genuine, and Kuryakin felt he'd already showed too much of himself--that he’d _run_ here, least of all. 

Yet, he felt compelled to speak. Kuryakin convinced himself that, because it was such a rare occurrence, Solo's request should be met. 

"I would not appreciate the reminder, no. Whatever the usefulness. But..." Kuryakin's arms fell from his chest, and he instead slid his hands uneasily into his pants pockets. It was the least defensive Solo had ever seen him. "Is a difficult question. You have scars, yes? From the--"

"Yes," Solo interrupted. "The restraints. And other... accoutrements."

Kuryakin remembered the hidden nodes positioned strategically on Solo’s body so as to direct electric shocks into his musculature. Affixed with a soft, sticky substance and snaked through his clothes, their presence was equally a surprise to Solo. He tore them from the skin of his armpits and inner thighs, and everywhere else they’d been plotted to ensure every bolt of pain was as intimate as it was striking, while Kuryakin carried out the dual retribution of forcing Rudi into his own creation.

"Reminder enough, yes?" Kuryakin tried to smile. Then he shrugged, added dismissively, "And the dreams." 

It was so precise a point--and indeed, entirely applicable to Solo himself--that Solo had to genuinely wonder if he'd shared it in the first place. He was certain he had not so much as uttered a word, and in fact had taken pains to disguise that particular truth, and remedy the sleepless nights with a bit of ladies' concealer under his eyes. 

Which led him to the natural conclusion: Kuryakin was speaking from experience. 

"Do you have scars? And dreams?"

Solo knew Kuryakin would not openly admit to it--they were similarly prideful in that respect--but he was nonetheless surprised that the response he did receive was mindful and generous. Kuryakin seemed to have gleaned that Solo was not the most endowed with training and resources, considering his work. His inexperience with torture was one example, his penchant for skimming off the top to meet his needs, another. That the CIA did not envelop him in their organization so much as lash him to their ship was a truth Solo tried to overrun with confidence. 

The unpleasant reality of the matter was, experience was catching up to him. 

"The head plays tricks,” Kuryakin said, a touch conspiratorially. “Pain is only an adversary, never a master." He relieved one of his hands from his pocket and gestured at the collection of photographs, which Solo had resealed. "Perhaps... You look. One day. And you know it was not so terrible a thing that you did not live through it." 

"That's… surprisingly upbeat.”

“A glowing review of KGB training,” Kuryakin said, shy only in his attempt at replicating American humor. “I will pass it along.” 

“Put it on the brochure,” Solo agreed. 

Solo did not look at the photographs that day, but he kept them. The prospect of orchestrating a future diversion with their use lost its luster over time (Solo lamented that doing so would necessitate the maintenance of one single hairstyle and length of sideburns), but so too did the notion of destroying them. The day he did look--a Wednesday morning, over a breakfast of coffee and toast--Kuryakin inexplicably knew it. He said nothing, asked no questions, and relayed no favor. 

But he knew. 

\- 

In September, a mission concerning the sale of illicit chemical materials in Cape Town took them up the African coast, through dismal historic ports and across the Atlantic Ocean to a place of renowned criminality: New Jersey.

Stood on the cold, wet floors of a port side warehouse at an abysmal hour just shy of midnight, Kuryakin knew there was no time for mercy, let alone tact. Their mark had made Solo and was waving a pistol in his face. His threat concerned Kuryakin less than his loose grip; he'd sooner mistakenly let off a shot than purposefully take aim.

Still, Kuryakin did not hesitate. Playing Solo's business associate, he had cause enough to be in the room. Under the guise of backing away and leaving Solo as the sole perpetrator of a botched deal, he rounded the mark, then snapped his neck and dropped him at Solo's feet.

"I could have talked him down," Solo huffed as he bent to retrieve the dead man's briefcase.

Kuryakin threw an arm back to indicate the approaching hordes of armed muscle. "And them? You want sit, have chat?" 

Stolen goods in hand, they bid a hasty retreat out of the warehouse and surrounding compound, on foot and by stolen vehicle as necessity dictated.

A three-tiered spike strip was thrown open at the exit, shredding their stolen Jeep's tires. Solo and Kuryakin abandoned their vehicle and continued on foot, mindful of the gleaming, razor-sharp treads that speared upwards all along the dock as they ran amidst screeching alarms, blinding floodlights, and too-late gate closures. His long, camel-colored overcoat proved difficult to run in, so Kuryakin threw it off. Solo seemed more put-off by that move than the unceremonious killing of their mark.

But he had the right idea, and Solo reluctantly shed his over lengthy coat. They looked no less ridiculous racing for their lives in tailored three-piece suits. 

“Visual,” Kuryakin said, because losing his overcoat did not cost him the U.N.C.L.E-regulated listening device affixed to his jacket lapel.

And to be sure: just ahead of them, a mint green moped buzzed to life and honked twice. Solo thrust the briefcase--recovered documents and all--at the driver, Gaby, who’d been waiting on the scooter, disguised in trousers and a cap. For the early hour and poor light, she was easily mistaken for a delivery boy. With a swift tug of a slip knot, she released a heavy payload from the back of her scooter, and secured the goods in their place. Though her eyes were narrow with skepticism, Solo and Kuryakin urged her to go. The information held in the files was time sensitive; Gaby was meant to meet Waverly on a plane at a nearby airfield at her earliest convenience.

She sped off, and Solo and Kuryakin watched until she’d disappeared from view. 

Behind them, the throngs of hired gunmen grew and fractured into more organized mobs. The night was set ablaze with the individual spotlights on motorbikes and vehicles. Some would undoubtedly retreat from the scene of the crime, others still would seek retribution for the loss of their criminal livelihoods, if not their boss.

Their escape vehicle was positioned some ways away; they'd have to navigate through a maze of cargo containers to reach it. If pursued and under fire, there was no assurance they'd clear the compound. 

"If we make a run for it--" Solo started, but saw the uselessness of his own idea as their opponents charged towards them. “We’ll most assuredly die, to finish a thought.”

Kuryakin was already kneeling, and when he stood he'd recovered the items from Gaby's scooter: two automatic weapons. He threw one to Solo, and slung the other across his chest.

They dispatched the first line with a hail of automatic weapon fire; Kuryakin aiming high, Solo going low. Solo tried for tires, but heard a few distinctly human screams. All they had to see by was the glare of the approaching vehicles, and the blasts from their own weapons. Firing blind was not Solo's usual style, but these were extenuating circumstances.

Kuryakin seemed to think so, too. He spat a string of curses as his weapon jammed, and he was forced to resort to his sidearm. What he gained in accuracy, he lost in speed. Having survived the fray, a motorbike--its driver having the wherewithal to dim its light--sped towards him. Rather than waste the bullets, Kuryakin threw his shoulder into it, causing the driver to lose control and crash. 

Another motorbike--this one with a passenger firing blindly into the night--fast approached.

Kuryakin turned and braced himself for impact: legs spread and bent, gun secured in his crossbody holster, arms out, and a deep breath held for when the collision inevitably knock it out of him. Luck was on his side; the driver, perturbed, punched the breaks. Kuryakin was able to halt the vehicle and violently throw the driver out of his seat in the process. Solo grinned wide at the display, and thought somehow Kuryakin would command some superhuman strength to retain the bike, and that they might commandeer it for their own escape. 

It might have been so, had another rider not zig-zagged through Solo’s hail of gunfire, and made contact. He came speeding in from the far right, and drove straight towards Kuryakin, clipping him. The motorbike the Russian had been battling with sailed upwards and went horizontal, a lost cause even before Solo heard the fall that cracked its frame. 

The one that found him could have laid Kuryakin flat by the sheer force of its head-on assault, but it did them one better: the back wheel chewed through air, then cleared over Kuryakin’s leg. 

Solo shouted, Kuryakin fell, and bones snapped.

Solo emptied his sidearm into their aggressors, the last of a first barrage. 

He rushed to recover Kuryakin, who was downed where he’d stood. He was on his back, groaning and bloodied. Solo, sure that someone was listening on their bugged suit lapels, requested an emergency evacuation, an ambulance, _something._

In a blessed moment of calm before their opponents sent another rash of shooters after them, Solo hooked his arms under Kuryakin’s and was able to drag him into the dark and relative safety of a line of landed cargo containers. They made a makeshift alleyway and, although it was not his style, Solo hid them both amidst bagged trash and filth. There, he drew Kuryakin into his lap, careful to keep his leg undisturbed. His consideration mattered little; for all its angles, the broken limb looked like a crack of lightening. 

Solo felt the warmth and firmness of Kuryakin's back well through the layers of clothes. He had a distinctly wiry frame wrapped with dense musculature--the kind formed from experience throwing off opponents seeking to handle him like Solo was. Instinctively, Kuryakin tensed, pressed back against Solo, grappled for him with raised arms, then finally relented. 

“Go,” Kuryakin gritted out, his breath wet and visible in great white clouds at his lips. “They’ll keep coming.” 

There would be reinforcements, Solo knew. And if they had a lick of sense about them, they'd scour quietly for their wounded prey, and make for a quick and painless slaughter. But Solo could not chance moving Kuryakin, so their fates here were sealed. 

Solo promised, “I’ll kill them all.” 

Kuryakin tried to sit up--he preferred to face Solo when protesting the man’s foolhardy ideas--but Solo stopped him with a firm hand on his chest. It was no good for the cracked ribs, but certainly less harmful than allowing his partner to put his full weight on a broken leg. With his other hand, Solo fired off a few silent rounds into the distant dark. A car veered off course and crashed, another casualty in this pointless game. Solo would shoot however many it took to end the siege, or to rally the aid of his own kind. 

Before U.N.C.L.E, Kuryakin worked under the impression that he was alone, with only his wits to serve him. Solo never knew that life; the CIA had plants everywhere. More than that--they didn't trust him. He was always partnered up, sometimes with two or more other agents, simply so that they could keep an eye on him. More still were only tangentially involved, existing only at the edges of any given operation. (Kuryakin and his KGB loyalists would have shat themselves if they knew the full extent of it. As a creeping, covert force America was everything the Soviets feared it was, and then some.) 

Solo smoothed his hands down Kuryakin’s front and side, and came away with the stalled assault rifle. He slid it off Kuryakin’s body and, by touch, took it apart and cleared the blockage. 

“Russian made,” he chastised his friend. “No wonder it left you high and dry.”

“Russian design,” Kuryakin said with a wince. “American made.”

“Why don’t we blame a lesser country and call it a day? Useless Belize.” Solo snapped the weapon back together and drew it on, but hissed when the strap grazed his shoulder.

“You’re hit,” Kuryakin observed as he again strained himself to rise. He knew his own hurts and readily dismissed them, but the spilled blood of another seemed to heighten his senses and stir his resolve. He shook off the nauseating drag of a broken limb and craned his neck. "Let me see."

Solo barked a laugh--a bizarre thing, spontaneous and absurd and as bright as the flash of a pistol in the night. Of course Kuryakin would notice that a bullet had glanced Solo’s shoulder, but discount his own shattered leg. 

“You’re an idiot,” Solo said, and capped off any protest with his lips, chapped from the cold, pressed against Kuryakin's until they were warmed.

It could have been nothing--a mere misplacement of selves in the pitch black night, or the lethal combination of Kuryakin's desire to stand with Solo's need to shrink over his wound. But it lacked every hallmark for a mistake, and instead was colored with both conviction and stamina. It was, quite undoubtedly, a kiss. 

Kuryakin took it upon himself to right this wrong. He turned his head, breaking whatever force it was holding them in place. Then, he beared the weight and pain of Solo’s actions, and although he refused to push the man away, willed his own departure. Awkwardly, and therefore in a way both inherently counter to his character and to his very _mass,_ Kuryakin shirked back. He leaned towards the ground Solo had raised him from, spilled his body onto it, and finally sat up on his own. 

With a hand pressed to the side of a cargo container and his teeth very nearly biting through his lip, Kuryakin stood. The pain was blinding hot, but he had endured more to escape a lesser shame. With a scream lodged tight in his throat, Kuryakin walked away from Solo on a broken leg, and kept walking until a nondescript vehicle waved him down. The driver called out an U.N.C.L.E code phrase--“Give me a lift next Sunday, won’t you?”--and collected him.

Effectively, he had committed the unforgivable sin of leaving his partner behind. Even for his years of more solitary work, Kuryakin knew it for a grievous error, beyond reproach. 

It did not matter that Solo was more than capable of losing any pursuers throughout the dock and spread of cargo containers--which he _did,_ a simple task he finished with casually waving down a taxi with his good arm. In a stroke of good luck, the next wave of gunmen saw the carnage Solo and Kuryakin had made of their kind and turned tail. 

Sat in the back of a taxi, Solo’s long, slow drive was made all the more agonizing because he did not know what he'd find at the end of it, besides an outrageous bill to pass along to U.N.C.L.E. 

Lights along the interstate flashed hot over the car, then disappeared, and reappeared, and generally hummed hypnotic through the journey. Would Kuryakin find this as cause to dissolve their partnership? Or do just that and worse, by explaining why? Certainly, Solo's mixed predilection was a secret, too, but it was one he could live with.

He'd believed the same for Kuryakin. All he had to do was see it.

It was a thought Solo had turned over in his mind for months now. With some careful planning, the truth could happen upon him like a vision: simple yet whole, a new rendering of himself. Instigating a kiss was the farthest thing from Solo’s plan, and an unwitting mistake. 

And above all, not smoothly done.

Solo leaned his head against the window and waited for New Jersey to pass. His fingers stretched out to touch the empty seat beside him, feeling that something was missing but space couldn't hold it. 

The cold on the window licked at his lashes when Solo closed his eyes. 

"Goddamnit." 

\- 

Gaby found him the next morning. She was lounging on his office couch, smell-testing her way through his collection of Cuban cigars when he entered late, tired, handsomely dressed--his usual fare. 

“You didn’t check in last night,” she said, and kicked her heels up, off the side couch where she'd set them. As Solo walked past, he brushed away imaginary dirt. 

“I saw the world didn’t end and thought I’d turn in early,” Solo said. He went clear over to his desk and sat on the edge. It was no secret he didn't do much work there; it was more of a formality, really. Kuryakin used to joke with him that the only reason the desk stayed was because it was bolted to the floor. 

_"Which would be no problem, if you were stealing it. Right, Cowboy?"_

Solo didn't think they'd be joking any more. 

“How is he?”

It was a strange thing to ask; in any other instance, Solo would have been the first to know. 

“Like you’d expect," Gaby said, rising from the couch and straightening her skirt. Solo recognized it as one from an outing shared among himself, Gaby, and Kuryakin. Previously scouted agent or not, Gaby still had the wardrobe of a mechanic behind the wall. On their first weekend in New York, they remedied that. “Not terribly pleased about being run over.” 

“I’d like to see him.” Solo waited a beat, unsure if Kuryakin had already made himself clear. Gaby only frowned at him, impatient.

“Shall I carry his highness there?" Gaby teased, and performed a sweeping bow. "You know where the infirmary is. Or do you need someone to run interference with a scorned nurse?”

Recovering quickly, Solo gave a wicked grin. “I suppose you’ve got better things to do.”

Gaby offered up a half-smile in return, and with a gentle pat on his hand as they both started towards the door, she'd unknowingly relieved him of his anxiety. “Cheer him up.”

In three short words, it was confirmed to Solo that Kuryakin hadn’t spoken out of turn, much less described in detail what Solo had done. Coming into that reality was like finding new air in his lungs: something sharp and clean, unsullied by processes, natural or otherwise. And with this breath Solo drew in a new idea: it was a possibility--however small--that all could be forgotten.

"I'll give it all I've got," Solo promised Gaby, finally feeling the cheer he'd mimed. "And then some."

\- 

The infirmary at U.N.C.L.E’s Manhattan headquarters was a well-hidden institution, given that it housed agents at their most vulnerable, and--as a space-saving initiative, rather than out of practicality--it occupied the same floor as the chemical and biological laboratories. It was fit nicely between U.N.C.L.E's four other floors of operations, and even then was still enveloped in two additional "buffer" floors. 

Given the space, Solo figured it would not be too difficult to find a stolen moment alone with his partner. 

But Solo did not account for the tenacity of others. 

A young nurse was flitting about the room, checking and rechecking Kuryakin's chart, then needlessly taking his blood pressure. She inspected the patient-controlled analgesia device, a recent invention of some novelty that, to Solo’s limited knowledge, dispensed small amounts of morphine. She checked twice that the contraption was working.

Solo smiled at her; she was new, and obviously did not want to be responsible for the loss of a top agent. Her bouncing red ponytail and resting expression of ire reminded him of Gaby. 

The resemblance was not lost on Kuryakin, either, because he wordlessly did as she ordered. Given the circumstances, however, he couldn't very well defy her. Kuryakin was laid up in bed, his shattered leg enveloped in a blinding white cast, elevated by a system of wires and a small canvas hammock drawn down from the ceiling. Bruising bloomed like spring over his naked chest, where there wasn't much but bed rest to do for his cracked ribs. For all the swirling purple and blue hues, his front looked like a surrealist landscape. Solo mused privately to himself that he'd once stolen a work very much like it, and this display seemed to reaffirm his good taste. 

While Solo remained in the doorway, he knew unceremonious silence would not do. He adopted a smile and a wily humor about the situation. “Good to see you're being well cared for, agent. Rumor has it you set the leg yourself in the backseat of a Chevy with a discarded golf club.”

Kuryakin's mouth remained a thin line during Solo's little speech, but he recognized it for what it was, and played along. “It was a Ford hatchback.”

“Roomier,” Solo agreed brightly, and stood with his back to Kuryakin for a moment, inspecting the hardware in the room. "And the golf club?"

Kuryakin sniffed. "It is as they say." 

Hands shelved on her hips, the nurse served Solo a warning look. “Don't over-excite him,” she said of her patient.

Behind her, Kuryakin colored, and Solo bit back genuine discomfort. “I couldn't if I tried.” 

Kuryakin watched the nurse until she'd left the room, closing the door behind her. He then set his hardening gaze upon Solo. “You don’t have to be here.”

“Is that a polite way of telling me to scram?”

“Yes.”

Out from under Kuryakin’s sour tones came a slow but sure realization for Napoleon Solo: this situation would not be forgotten, but that was just as well--he no longer wished for such an underwhelming fate. Rather, he wanted it understood. It was a far greater task than he'd first hoped for, but it was his to accomplish. There was more strategizing yet to be done, so he smiled weakly and stalled for time. 

"Ever had a broken leg before?"

Kuryakin gave a near-imperceptible shake of his head. Ribs, fingers, an arm, collarbone--he'd ran the gamut with injuries and broken bones, but a leg proved especially challenging. He worried about the fast deterioration of his physical capabilities, long-term effects, and the immediate loss of complete mobility and independence. What was his worth, now? All his other skills and strength meant nothing to his superiors when confined to a hospital bed. 

"It's nothing,” Solo assured him. “A walk in the park, without all that dreaded forward propulsion."

He waited, smile fixed upon his features, but Kuryakin had no response. 

“Why should it be so different,” Solo prompted, his demeanor suddenly more reserved than before, his diction less pronounced. “Now. As opposed to when you told me--”

“What I told you,” Kuryakin said coldly, “Was of the past.” A fleeting look of uncertainty darkened his features, before he was relieved of it and, in its place, wore a look of distrust. “And. I don’t believe you've told _me_ anything.”

“It’s only as I’ve said--men, women. I find it takes all sorts.”

The answer was so simple, and admission so plain, Kuryakin couldn’t help but feel slighted for it. His own had come with textbook citations and footnotes; for everything he’d done or felt, there was cause and explanation to excuse it. How could he not take offense, hearing his great personal fault gamely accounted for in another? 

Kuryakin studied Solo for a long time, as if he believed Solo would recant. It made his heart race painfully fast when he realized no denial was forthcoming. 

He felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment as he willed himself to give credence to Solo’s professions--wrong and hideous as they were. “And you couldn’t wait half an hour? Return to the city, find--someone? Anyone?”

“It wasn’t a matter of… just anyone.” 

Ever the picture of confidence, Solo didn't so much as blink when he said it. He walked the length of the room, his Italian leather Oxfords silent on the linoleum flooring, and took a seat in a chair stood in the corner. Sunlight bled in from the window and warmed his features, while Kuryakin was kept in the cold. 

"Were you... pining for me." Kuryakin looked as though the very thought made him nauseous. It was no mortal wound, but Solo decided not to give him the satisfaction, anyway.

"Adjacently. Adjacent pining." Solo crossed a leg, ankle over knee, and leaned comfortably into the light. It swallowed up every rough edge and made him look ageless and ethereal. It made him look _unfair._ "In addition to sleeping with scores of beautiful men and women, I maintained a vague awareness for your presence." He smiled, brighter than the sun. "Just as you do for me."

Kuryakin scoffed bitterly at the thought. "You flatter yourself."

"I don't need to."

"It is not what I am."

"Not with that attitude, surely." Solo was wholly aware that such an approach was a poor choice; he wasn’t going to argue and needle Illya Kuryakin into his arms. But he was hurt and angry and petulant. Kuryakin had _walked away from him on a broken leg_ of all things, being so eager to escape him.

“Leave,” Kuryakin ordered. His accent rolled thick over every syllable. “And do not speak of this again.”

Yet, to Solo’s ears, Kuryakin’s demands were as good as an invitation to stay. 

“So,” Solo drawled, “You don’t mean to reveal me. Interesting.”

“I do not mean to indict myself,” Kuryakin spat. “Keeping your secret is only minor consequence. _Byproduct.”_

Solo held his hand to his cheek, and cocked his head as he looked upon his partner with a mixture of amusement and pity. “Illya. You could chase a cat, that doesn’t mean you’re a dog.”

By that teasing line alone, Kuryakin looked as though Solo had made his argument for him. “Is just as I thought. Madness.”

Solo withdrew the hand and replaced it with an equally patronizing smile. “Yes, Illya. You thought up this entire method of demonizing and persecuting sexual outliers such as our--”

Kuryakin's hard-edged voice interrupted Solo’s spiel. Words formed and ushered out of him like army battalions. “Do--not--speak--my-- _name!”_

In a fit of desperation, Kuryakin punched at the small device drawn up the wall and to the door--his means of flipping a switch to draw attention from a nurse, her authoritative presence his only recourse in dealing with an unwanted guest while bedridden. Of course, Solo had anticipated Kuryakin’s desire to be rid of his company. He left the chair and stood at the foot of the bed, then pointed to where he'd been standing when he first entered the room.

He said, “I disabled the alarm.”

"Solo," Kuryakin gritted out, another warning upon which he did not elaborate. 

“We’re not finished here.” Solo told him, then paced the room so that his back was to his partner and his words echoed his positioning: “You left me behind.”

“And you hailed a _cab._ You were in no danger.” Kuryakin spoke his excuses as though he’d had to write them down, previously, and commit them to memory.

“Do you know what fares are at these days? I was effectively held hostage and robbed.”

“Solo…” Kuryakin spoke the name uneasily, like he'd stolen the breath and means of saying it from another word. He said _Solo_ like _please,_ or _be rational,_ or _forgive me._ “Perhaps I acted out of turn. Can you at least appreciate the fact that I am the first to say so?”

“I don’t believe my intentions were entirely misguided," Solo told him. “Inopportune, perhaps, but… Not without merit. Not without pretence.” 

It was not the fierce defense of himself that he had readied, but those words alone struck Kuryakin hard. He seemed to draw himself deeper into the shadow afforded by the position of his hospital bed some distance from the window. From his time in the Army, Solo recalled similar arrangement in medical bases. It was a safety precaution, taken after a rash of shell-shocked individuals purposefully plummeted to their deaths. 

Kuryakin did not make a move towards that end. He was instead as Solo had seen the worst of the inflicted: swallowed up and lost in darkness. 

Very quietly, Kuryakin waded through a few short sentences of speech. He said that, given current circumstances, he should return the drawing Solo did of his mother. Kuryakin bit his lip after saying so, like he'd rather eat his words than speak them.

"I should return it,” he repeated, “But--I don’t want to.”

And he wondered if Solo’s kindness must indeed be repaid in this way. Spies traded in information, skills, blood--why not favor? Friendly with a mark or even a fellow agent, Solo did it all the time; Kuryakin had never been asked. He did not know if his minders believed him incapable, or if they had too much respect for him. He hoped the latter, but expected the former. 

All the same, it frightened him. Always had. The prospect of exchanging himself in that way--and the possibility that he'd inevitably give too much and be exposed for it--made him rendered him weak. 

But then, Solo already knew too much. Kuryakin opened his mouth, but only to draw in a breath that rattled past his aching ribs. 

“I don’t want you to,” Solo confirmed, his tone exacting and deeply careful. He studied Kuryakin and, as was his terrible skill, read him plainly. “It was a gift, not payment.”

Kuryakin did not look poised to cry again--no, that was something Solo was fairly certain he’d seen the last of. But he looked ruined in other ways. His eyes were red-rimmed and swept up in dark bags, all sat on a pale face. It was, together, a testament to his physical ails as much as his emotional ones. He hadn't looked well since he received news of his mother’s passing, but until this moment, he hadn't looked worse. His pupils little more than pinpricks lost to a swell of lifeless blue. Everything about him--from his broken body to his empty gaze and listless tones--seemed poised for death.

And yet--Solo had reason to be cautiously optimistic. It was his gesture of kindness that Kuryakin found fraught with meaning, and he had not once spoken of the kiss. He rallied against neither lust nor desire; his enemy was Solo’s own heart. Kuryakin’s was at stake, too, and he meant for theirs to be an equal battle. 

“Do you have it here?”

Kuryakin nodded mutely, and glanced sidelong at his bag. Gaby had likely brought it for him--a thought confirmed for Solo when he dug through it and found books but no necessities. He discovered the picture secured in a steel sleeve, itself sewn into a secret pocket. Solo took it, turned the drawing over and neatly wrote, _For Illya. THIS IS A GIFT. Napoleon Solo,_ then wordlessly returned the item to its owner.

In the time Kuryakin held the image and said nothing, he could have read the message a hundred times over. Maybe he did. He wet his lips and asked, “Why?”

It was a question through which Solo was saddened, yes, but also vindicated. This was the Kuryakin he knew--a man not ruled by fear or anger, but a man locked in constant battle against them both. Here, with a simple question, he was willing to take up arms in defense of himself. 

Solo tempered himself, saying only, “Why not? Touch and pleasure and--comfort. Surely you can appreciate those things… conceptually.”

“With men?” Kuryakin said, incredulous, the very idea still stinging his tongue as if barbed. He bit out, again, like the words would finally mean something, _“It is not what I am.”_

Solo had the inexplicable urge to argue with him. It stood to reason that he was no love-struck fool, bending reality towards his own idealized end. Very simply--he'd noticed things. He'd caught every stolen glance, each smile Kuryakin smothered, those doomed gazes as they split up for still more and more dangerous tasks. While Kuryakin was unabashedly smitten with Gaby--enamoured by her wit and strength--he held a different flame for Solo, and all that he represented. His was a rebel spirit in a system ruled by compliance. He rose to the top of his profession out of spite, and all the while with a preference for smarts and cunning, even if violence had proven itself time and again. He was a natural contrarian, all teeth behind an agreeable smile. It escaped no one’s notice that these characteristics came wrapped in a desirable package, for which Solo was rewarded with plentiful company. But none stuck by his side longer or more devoutly than Kuryakin, a man who, Solo felt, knew him in every way that counted, save for one. 

Solo sat on the very edge of the hospital bed, and leaned close to Kuryakin. "Refuse me if you truly feel nothing for me. I'm certain I can manage. But do not shovel a poor lie and think I won't notice."

Kuryakin’s neck and cheeks burned red. 

Solo pressed, “You came to me for company. You cried on my shoulder. You literally ran to my _secret apartment_ to see what you already knew to be true.” His natural showmanship suddenly failed him, and Solo found himself doubting whether putting everything on the line was wise. “You care if I am dead or alive. In this line of work--that’s truly something.”

“You are my friend,” Kuryakin said, a weak defense of his actions, once laid before him plainly and in such abundance. 

“I am,” Solo agreed. “As such, I’m privy to a few baser truths. Here are just two: First, you are desperately lonely.” It was a point Kuryakin believed inconsequential to their situation, but he did not protest. “Second, you are _elated_ right now, but are trying to convince yourself it’s just the morphine.”

“No,” Kuryakin said at once, and then sat in silence. It was difficult to lie about himself, no matter how much practice he’d had. It was more difficult still to hear people speaking his own private truths like they were so easy to come by: Gaby’s Uncle Rudi calling him a lesser breed, his handlers ready with a laundry list of faults from which he could still claim redemption, and now Solo, with this candy-colored notion that Kuryakin still felt things at all. 

He angled his head to regard Solo, still sat on the edge of his bed, but saw only the bits of dust caught in the light gathered between them. “I do not feel this way... for you. I am sorry for anything I did… my actions… that led you to believe otherwise.” 

Solo patted Kuryakin’s good knee; it was not a tender touch. "You're a terrible liar."

Kuryakin jerked away, needlessly disturbing his injury in the process. He breathed heavily as shocks of pain spiraled throughout his body, then settled in his pelvis. His elbows fought starched bed sheets as he forced himself upwards, then bent at the waist despite his ribs. It was as defensive a position as he could manage, and Solo’s words deserved no less. "What do you expect me to say, when your behavior here is as empty as your loyalties? You are teasing me. _Lying."_

Solo pursed his lips and broke eye contact with Kuryakin. He wondered if they’d wounded each other too egregiously, or if there was something yet that could be salvaged. Their friendship was previously built on divisive subjects, lines drawn but never crossed. Solo knew he had upset the balance by prompting this, a thing they could only have by abandoning all else.

He stood and straightened his suit jacket. He’d gone home, washed, changed. He'd remade himself while Kuryakin was here, being stitched back together along the same, damaged patterns. Solo didn’t speak again until he’d reached the door, turned the knob, and cracked it open. Whatever he had to say, he meant it as no secret.

“I haven’t lied to you once.”

After Solo’s departure, Kuryakin noticed the room felt cold, the air stale. _Empty,_ and either for the morphine or his shattered pride, Kuryakin could hardly feel himself inside it. He did not dwell on the things Solo had said to him, much less his own responses. He drew the sheets high over his body, and was absently glad Solo had tampered with systems meant to make himself known to others. 

Kuryakin wanted desperately to be alone. After denying Solo, he felt it was all that he deserved.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody sticking with this! And a special thanks to my cat, who sat on my iPad and managed to delete part of this chapter. Less for you kind readers to slog through! Doing the lord's work, this cat.

Gaby couldn't help but touch the glittering diamond necklace piled high around her throat. 

“Stop that,” Solo warned. His voice and breath stirred together warmly at the soft of her ear as he leaned over her. It was an unnecessary gesture just to relieve her of her fur coat. “People will suspect you haven’t been wearing diamonds since you were in diapers.” 

“God forbid,” Gaby muttered, but moved her fidgeting hands into her hair all the same. She tested a curl and smiled savagely, and Solo wondered how he could have ever doubted her skills for the game. 

They were led to a table near where their mark, Mr. Bird, would be sat in an hour’s time. Guilty of selling state secrets, their man would be armed with a file meant for a hand-off--a party U.N.C.L.E had already intercepted, and replaced in turn with Solo. The information was hardly the goal, however. Solo was to play the straight man, deny being exactly who it was Mr. Bird believed him to be, and ultimately refuse the file. 

The real prize was what would inevitably come after: a harried Mr. Bird would make contact with his buyer, who was suspected of spreading the secrets under various countries’ banners, and selling them back several times over. U.N.C.L.E would flip him to his own government, and let _them_ do the dirty work.

The key to the evening was Gaby, who would visit the cloak room to retrieve Solo’s wallet at the end of their meal, and bug their mark’s coat in the process. 

It was a simple task, all said. And they’d get a free meal out of it.

Unfortunately for Solo, Gaby was no longer a fan of the long con, and their dinner conversation took a turn towards the realistic after her first drink.

"What happened in New Jersey?"

Solo pressed his lips into an unweilding smile. “Honey, let's not discuss it now.”

“He’s miserable. _Still._ I can only assume you are to blame.” She gestured at Solo with her fork, and the speared chunk of chicken on its end. 

“You said it yourself,” Solo sighed, feigning like he was actually going to give something up. “New Jersey. Surely the venue bears some of the blame?”

Gaby flagged down a waiter and ordered another drink. She wasn't finished, and only common courtesy kept her from getting belligerent about it. The second gin and tonic was ammunition. 

“We had a misunderstanding,” Solo admitted, believing he’d be better served getting out ahead of the matter. If she was only to Solo now, it only stood to reason she’d exhausted her means of getting Kuryakin to talk. If he told her _something,_ at least, she might be more inclined to believe it. 

Gaby narrowed her eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”

“If either of us knew, it wouldn’t be a misunderstanding, now would it?” Solo ordered coffees and a dessert for them both, then glanced at his watch. Better to speak his piece now than to couch it in innocuous terms when the next table filled. 

“He’s very upset,” he continued carefully, “About not knowing where he stands with the Russians.”

“He wants to go home,” Gaby said. This much, she’d long known. She tried not to let it touch her heart, but couldn’t deny it feeling--at least--a little bruised. 

Their coffees--and Gaby's drink--arrived. Gaby downed her drink in one, then went seamlessly about adding cream and sugar to her coffee. 

Solo did the same, albeit with less of a boozy air. “Yes. I think that’s very much the root of all his problems.”

"And you said something to that effect?" Gaby asked, duly expecting the worst. 

"You know me. I'm always up for a little betrayal of one's loyalties." Solo sipped his coffee. "He was, understandably, a tad scandalized."

“Defection is no game,” Gaby warned quietly. And Solo realized he had forgotten how close Gaby had once lived to that world. How every facet of her life was dictated by a great divide, itself sustained only by the willingness of its truest believers to enforce it. A sleek hairstyle and borrowed jewels couldn't mask the ravaged look in her eyes at the very notion of testing the hold of one’s nation.

The discussion ended there, punctuated by the arrival of their dessert and their marks. Gaby made a show of suddenly monopolizing the conversation, driving it towards imagined summer plans in the cape, while Solo nodded and smiled and generally made himself available for Mr. Bird to get a look at, and nothing more. And Mr. Bird did watch him, rather aggressively, from the next table over. This proved him a novice at his chosen illegal side-work, and Solo felt a surge of sympathy for him. He’d made mistakes in his youth and Mr. Bird was--above all else--a youth. He wore wire rim glasses and over-slicked his hair, but his skin was tinged pink and untouched by time. His face, with all its sharp angles and smooth planes, was some austere landscape fitted to the human form.

His wife was young, homely, and totally oblivious to her husband’s plight. She looked all around the restaurant, marveled at the decor and its patrons, all works of art. Her dress was dated some seasons ago, and her diamond earrings--which he kept checking to make sure hadn’t fallen away from her--were obviously borrowed. The most important thing about her, however, was that she was not meant to be there. 

“I _love_ your shoes!” Gaby gushed loudly. She threw herself well over the table and clamped a hand down on their marks’ place setting. Solo smiled at his wife for the night and gamely ducked his head to share a look.

“They're lovely,” he said, charming the woman without fail. 

Mrs. Bird was tickled, and quickly accepted Gaby's invitation to join her in the powder room, thus leaving Solo and Mr. Bird in necessary privacy. When they returned, still giggling amongst themselves, Mr. Bird looked rightly stricken. Solo had refused the files, claimed ignorance, and--though not according to plan--suggested Mr. Bird would be better served stepping away from whatever business it was that should interrupt a fine dinner with his pretty wife. 

If Solo thought he'd had the heart for it, he wouldn't have uttered a single word of warning. After all, despite his effective imprisonment by the CIA, Solo wouldn't have traded his life of crime for anything. He'd seen the world, pocketed its best parts, swindled the rich, and slept with beautiful and interesting people. And, so long as fate smiled upon him, there were still parts of that life yet to reclaim.

Solo called for the cheque, patted his suit over for his wallet, and instigated the set-piece of Gaby lightly chastising his forgetfulness, while agreeing to search his coat in the cloak room. As she passed him, Gaby drew a finger along Solo’s jaw. Solo, while pleased to no end by her commitment to the role, recognized that the devilish little display was likely done for Mrs. Bird’s benefit. She seemed utterly enthralled by the sultry beauty of this glamorous couple; they were unlike anything she’d ever laid eyes upon, and Gaby--even in her role--felt some sense of responsibility towards that end. She wanted to leave her with something she could take into bed that night. 

Gaby completed her twin tasks of depositing the listening device and retrieving Solo’s wallet. They paid, tipped handsomely, and Gaby waved goodbye to Mrs. Bird as they left the restaurant. In another life, being similar in age and humor, they might have been friends. Instead, Gaby was placing her foolish husband in danger and could only stand to hope that whatever came of the mission, Mrs. Bird got out clean and none the wiser. 

“We’ve ruined her dinner, you know,” Gaby said as Solo helped her back into her coat. 

_“He_ did that.”

“In the immediate sense,” Gaby revised, her tone bleak.

“Oh. Well, yes. I suppose.” The night was cool and clear when they stepped out onto the sidewalk. Solo fished a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket and passed it to Gaby, who had already slipped the lighter from Solo’s other pocket. Smoking was a habit of hers she hadn't left in the East Berlin chop shop. “Speaking of ruined evenings, how should we salvage ours?” 

“Dressed like this?” Gaby asked, incredulous. Solo had to admit she had a point--though, the light from passing taxi cabs made her diamonds sing, her matching earrings dance. 

She made quick work of her cigarette and, for a moment, no amount of designer disguise could mask the girl who’d made a little life for herself behind the wall with greased hands and an impenetrable spirit. Smoke parted her lips when she asked, “Is there a presidential inauguration we can crash?” 

Gaby was leaning against the wall of the building, smirking and smoking and slowly being taken over by the alcohol in her system. Inebriation was a strange thing to witness, Solo decided, without a touch of his own in due course. Instead, it reminded him of something awful and unwanted. 

Solo smiled all the same. “Not this year, no.”

Inexplicably, Solo was not bursting with suggestions of where to go and what to do. He didn't happen to have opera tickets on hand, or a standing reservation at one of the finest restaurants in the city where being seen was more important that having a good meal. 

It was Gaby's initiative, then, that led them to hot dogs from a street vendor and entrance to an exclusive jazz concert in a shabby club. Succifice to say, Solo was the only one in a suit.

The club was situated under a department store, which accounted for the stacks of nude mannequins in the far corner of the room, next to the bar. The stage was a shabby creation, but sturdy. It held up under booted-feet and a tremendous sound.

The _sound_ \--chaotic, malcontent, angry, and alive. It was gritted teeth made to kiss, all grounded in a single heart’s pounding. Solo felt the unfamiliar sensation of unease--like a man shouldn’t simply be able to take in such an expression, but rather, must be invited to witness it. He looked to Gaby for an explanation. 

“Illya brought me here once,” Gaby said, and sipped her wine--so ordered, because a woman in a sultry cocktail dress and a fur overcoat that cost more than the building they were sat in would have already met her alcohol intake at her previous event. Wine was her _dénouement._ She raised an eyebrow and lost it under the sleek cut of her bangs. “He enjoyed himself more than you. During _and_ after.”

Solo regarded her doubtfully. “How could you _possibly_ tell?”

Gaby only smirked. 

There was a subtext of a very particular _kind_ of enjoyment, there, and Solo could hardly stand to believe he was being made to imagine it. “Please, Gaby, at least try to keep it in the realm of possibility.” He drank from his glass of scotch and let the warmth spread through his chest to counteract the “You haven't, anyway.”

Gaby squared her shoulders. “Haven't what?”

“Kissed him, slept with him, whatever it is you're implying.” Solo did not mince words, and Gaby rolled her eyes, accepting defeat. She'd only meant to test her skills against the master. “I suppose he could have given you a _fun_ hand-holding.” 

“It was fun,” Gaby defended, but her triumph was chipped away at by Solo’s exacting brand of sleuthing. “Until he realized what he was doing and begged my forgiveness for being so forward.” 

She lifted and tilted her wine glass, then lifted and tilted it a little more, until Solo could no longer see her face. Alluding to anything more than rigorous hand-on-hand action was not one of her prouder moments.

In her absence, Solo made eyes at a woman across the bar--or, rather, met the firm gaze _she’d_ first settled on _him._ She was pretty, tall, with dark hair that spilled over her broad shoulders. If Solo was seeking solace, a near-mirror image of himself poured into a seamless black dress seemed about right.

“You’re not a good spy,” Gaby said, having returned from the well of her wine glass. 

Solo raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” 

“You announce yourself. Everywhere you go--see, half the room is looking at you!”

“Could be they’re looking at you,” Solo teased, and sipped his drink. “Though, in fairness it’s likely because they can’t imagine why I haven’t got my hands on you.”

Gaby wagged a finger. “Ah, but you know better.”

“That I do,” Solo agreed, but anything more was lost. The band picked up again, first with a great swell of sound, and then drifted into little more than a level hum, punctuated by whining trumpets and the saxophone player showing off for his girlfriend in the first row. Solo reigned in his focus, and imagined Kuryakin as Gaby had once seen him. Solo put him in the empty seat at their small table, a drink in hand, his head slightly bowed, smiling, reverent. It was such a perfect picture in his mind that Solo closed his eyes to it, and tried to hear what it was that so enamoured his partner. He brought the scene to its natural completion, with Kuryakin deeming the performance ‘sublime,’ a word he learned in English exclusively for this instance. 

Although he was enjoying his time in another world in which Kuryakin accepted his company, Solo willed himself away from it. Beside him, Gaby swayed in her seat, enjoying the music. 

“How do you mean? I announce myself.” Solo knew of no better means of dashing a fantasy than speaking to the ugly realities of their work: the constant self-evaluation, the second-guessing, the doubt that burrowed into and gnawed at those untouchable places. 

“It’s not for the venue,” Gaby started to explain, and gestured to their equally out-of-place outfits. “Believe me, I know this is a poor example.” She sunk slightly over the table--a gesture which promised spilled secrets and confidences. “You look at everyone like you mean to sleep with them, and you’re mentally making room in your calendar.”

Solo smiled broadly. She wasn’t so far off. But the thought soon settled in him, and he wasn’t pleased with the implications. If true, he supposed it would explain Kuryakin’s prolonged distrust of him--even well after his _being American_ was outmatched by their collective _being in America_ \--and, now, his utter distaste towards him, even once confronted with an honest appreciation. 

“I don’t look at _you_ that way,” Solo reasoned.

Gaby wrinkled her nose. Admittedly, Solo had been a gentleman towards her, but she took it as little more than the exception that proved the rule. “You look at me like… you know better than to dare suggest it, but wouldn’t say no if I brought it to the table.”

Suddenly, Solo’s hand clamped down on the table over Gaby’s. Stricken, he asked, “I just had a terrible thought,” he said, and gripped her hand tighter, “Do I come off as desperate?”

Gaby only rolled her eyes and drew her hand back. “You look… like whether you deny someone or bring them to bed, they’re going to love it. It’s the Napoleon Solo guarantee.” 

“I don’t… quite know how to take that.”

Gaby waved a hand--her heaviest, stocked with borrowed jewelry Solo was of a mind to relieve her of. “Nothing, it's nothing. The only reason it's giving me grief is because I am playing your fiance, and not Illya’s.”

“I am _sure_ I don’t know how to take _that._ ”

“The way you look, and look at others… they must all take me for a fool not to see it.” She took another gulp of wine, as if she required aid in swallowing her own commentary. In most capacities, working with Solo ensured a successful mission. In others--these particular instances where Gaby found her independence compromised for the sake of a fine image, a pretty couple--that same success was inevitably partnered with some undue stress. Knowing she was more than capable and that such feelings were needless, Gaby collected herself. “It’s only pretend. Forget I said anything.”

“Peril looks… How he does.” Solo kept his tone measured and detached. As to his genuine thoughts on the matter, he wouldn't give anything away. 

“How kind of you to jump to his defense,” Gaby teased, and conceded the point: “He's very handsome, of course. It's something else...” 

Once, over an evening alone in her chic New York apartment, watching Johnny Carson with half a bottle of Merlot, Gaby had given it some thought--why she felt more at home playing the wife to Kuryakin's stoic protector over Solo’s gallant charm. But she lost her conclusions to the other half of the bottle, and had not revisited the subject since. 

She waved a hand, settled for, “I don't think Illya could tell you his own eye color. He'd have to consult his file.”

“And you think that absurdist level of modesty is… Attractive?”

“No. Quite sad, actually.” And then Gaby frowned, again plagued by questions of how maladjusted she preferred her partners.

Solo smiled sympathetically. “Let me explain my process.” 

“Oh, it's a _process_ now?” 

Solo waited for the music to again take hold of the room before speaking--in low, sure tones--to his partner. “I'm not much for espionage, admittedly, but I'm as fine a con man you'll find alive. If people are given what they want… They forget to question it.” It was hardly any secret, and Solo wasn't averse to sharing it with Gaby. Anyone could _know_ what he did, but only so many could replicate it for themselves, and fewer still couldn't recognize when he'd nestled the truth deep inside another lie. 

He continued, unprompted, “And the first thing anyone wants is _to be wanted._ I merely cover more ground--so to speak--by addressing that fact in its most… carnal terms.”

As for Gaby's jab about appealing to everyone, she wasn't wrong. In many ways, Solo fashioned himself as a designer drug; availability was his chief selling point. The challenge, then, was that it took an overwhelming willingness to lose oneself to a new morality--whichever allowed him to complete the task at hand. Being mistaken for himself was his greatest achievement.

Solo bit back that part of his explanation. It slithered back down his throat and settled somewhere well below his surface. He knew, instinctively, that there was so much more wrong with him than his rap sheet could contain.

He chanced a wary smile, knowing Gaby would like that. She'd want to see some sliver of humility out of him. He said only, “It’s a gamble, always.” 

But Gaby had long-stopped listening. She’d even put her head down in a nest formed by her folded arms, and let her glittering diamonds touch the sticky stained table-top. “I'm drunk. Buy me another hotdog?” 

Their night ended shortly after that, with a cab ride and instruction to drink plenty of water. Solo sent her flowers the next morning in appreciation for a lovely evening, and was sure to have his florist return the diamond bracelet Solo had lifted from Gaby’s wrist the night before. It was tastefully looped around a collection of plum-colored lilies. The card poking out from a forest of stems read simply, _I **enjoyed** myself immensely. Do tell Peril._

-

Walking up and out of the subway terminal had proved more difficult than Kuryakin anticipated. His pace was slower for all his practice, and the constant throng of bodies next to his was an unnerving presence, despite the fact that crowds were a thing Kuryakin had familiarized himself with and knew to work to his advantage. Now, without speed and dexterity on his side, he felt like a boulder chucked into a stream--an obvious obstacle, an unfamiliar force. Most agonizingly, people noticed him for being slow and in the way. 

Only the matter of where he was going--and the blocks he had still to get there--could have been enough to send him back down into that less-luxurious second city, to stand impatient and known on another concrete platform. 

Solo, fortuitously sat reading by his living room window, was able to watch Kuryakin's approach.

He came from the south, walking out from underneath an over-blue autumn sky. People passed him quickly, which made his slow steps appear still more prolonged. Once finding himself directly in front of Solo’s apartment building, he stalled, then looked up. That he spied Solo looking down at him was some combined miracle of timing, right down to the chilly season that stripped the nearby trees bare. Every pale yellow or brilliant red leap that had once climbed Solo’s building and provided some cover from nosy passersby now lined the street, clogged gutters, and fell spiraling down car parks. 

His visit already bore some of the markers of his last--on a Sunday, mid-day, unexpected. 

Kuryakin dropped his head the minute he was spotted, but Solo neither called out to him nor continued logging his pursuit. Rather, he remained sat in his silken, blue-and-white striped wingback armchair until his guest arrived at his door and knocked twice. 

Wearing a black turtleneck, brown coat, flat cap, wool trousers, and stern expression, he looked very much as Solo had first known him to look. Only the cane--a simple wooden number with a steel handle--was out of place. He leaned on it generously, and looked ashamed for it.

His face was somehow wholly untouched from the cold--clean and warm in coloring, whereas every living New Yorker had a face like pinched tissue: lined against the cold, drawing together towards the center, and inevitably draining there. Even Solo had battled the look. He sniffed, now, indignant at the very memory. Only Kuryakin's eyes held any hint of hardship. They were their clearest blue, but were hidden under knitted brows and ever-present cap. It was there that Kuryakin was certain he'd give himself away at the earliest opportunity, and so he'd made every effort to mask himself, short of a complete disguise. 

He chose only to refuse to meet Solo’s gaze, and in doing so surrendered his pride. 

Still, appearing mostly healthy was leagues beyond how Solo had last seen Kuryakin. A broken leg, it seemed, had done him well. Bed rest allowed his other aches to heal, and being pulled from extravagant missions kept any more from piling up. It wasn’t the cleanest means of acquiring a vacation, but Solo had to hand it to him on originality. 

So, Solo smiled. 

In a shared silence so profound it seemed unnatural to stand party to it, Solo returned to his living room, but Kuryakin stayed in the doorway. Solo took the hint.

“All clear,” Solo announced. He carried his tone a little too loudly; it spoke both to confidence and confrontation. He spread his arms to indicate that the whole of the apartment was free of listening devices. “Unless there’s one of yours I’ve missed.” 

“No,” Kuryakin assured him. Then, because he'd promised himself he'd say so, “I will not hide from you.”

“Anymore,” Solo corrected dryly. He dropped into the seat he'd previously been occupying at the window. “It’s been six weeks.”

“That is not how it felt to me,” Kuryakin muttered. “I have not known your absence for one day.”

Solo found himself suddenly put on edge. While Kuryakin had finally come to him--injured leg and all, he'd made the trip--and Solo had surveyed his approach, he nevertheless felt ambushed. Though it should have thrilled him, the prospect of Kuryakin being so attuned with his own feelings on the matter came as an unwanted surprise. Kuryakin was readily admitting to being victim of the same bitter longing Solo had felt--longing that was an undeniable punishment, a means of feeding a starved belly with empty sentimentality and hope for the impossible. 

Over the past several weeks, Solo felt stricken by the sensation, which seemed to strengthen rather than dissipate as he indulged in other company and vices alike. It visited him at odd times--a lull in his day, supper taken alone, idle showers. The longing feeling took his heart hostage and ruined it anew every day that Kuryakin found a means to distance their bodies and misalign their spirits. 

Solo would have preferred a brick wall masquerading as a human soul, the kind he accused Kuryakin of having. Otherwise, he'd be faced with something he recognized and could sympathize with. Another heart like his own--thin and rubbery from disuse--wasn't something he knew how to best in a fight. 

“Anyway. My leg,” Kuryakin said, a strong defense proffered weakly. His fingers curled tighter around the handle of his cane. 

Again, Solo’s combative streak got the best of him, and he refused to let a single word of Kuryakin’s go unchallenged. “Last I heard, you were actively casing targets in Boston.” 

“Surveillance,” Kuryakin said bitterly, dismissing the claim that he’d been doing much at all. “Sitting in restaurants. Sitting in hotel lobbies.” 

Solo’s head snapped up from where he'd lowered his gaze--momentarily--back to his book, split open and resting on the arm of his chair. “You didn’t want company?” 

Solo was still smarting, and for some bullheaded reason he wanted Kuryakin to know it. All the same, it wasn't a question he wanted answered, necessarily. But it surely wasn't one Kuryakin was going to answer, so its asking went on without issue. 

Kuryakin crossed slowly from the kitchen into the living room. The subtle menace of his cane prodding against the wood floors was undeniable. 

“May I sit?” he asked plainly. “It is all I do.”

Without waiting for permission, Kuryakin rounded the couch, but stopped short when activity at the door stalled his movements. His free hand went for his sidearm, while Solo raised a hand to steady it. The door was unlocked by a key, and the knock that followed was only for show. 

The visitor was Solo’s fellow student of jazz, the raven-haired woman he'd met on his night out with Gaby. She entered with an unspoken--and _frequent_ \--invitation, twirling the spare key around her finger. Kuryakin glared at Solo, in part relieved to be given an out, but mostly not surprised that Solo should receive a visitor such as this on a Sunday afternoon. 

For the time of day, her outfit was not what Kuryakin had heard referred to as ‘Church clothes.’

“Oh!” she exclaimed upon seeing that her prospective company had company of his own. But she was no blushing virgin, so she neither saw herself out or asked if she should. She merely waited for an explanation or--preferably--an invitation. 

Instinct and training drove Kuryakin to look away. He would not have this woman--whoever she was, whoever she was to _Solo_ \--see his face. Instead, his gaze settled on the bookshelf Solo kept. He hadn't read through any of the titles during his previous visit, but suddenly they were of the utmost importance to him. Almost the entire collection was made up of cookbooks in varying languages.

To Kuryakin's surprise, Solo dismissed the woman. He did not raise from his chair an inch, but somehow, with just the right inflection and charm, the woman left with a smile on her face.

When the door closed and locked again, Kuryakin felt the shift in power; Solo had not just disallowed the woman but accepted Kuryakin--he effectively had him held captive. 

“Sit,” Solo said, and what once was an invitation was now an order. 

“Here,” he added, gesturing to the empty place directly across from him on the couch. He did this without illusions; it was a test. For Kuryakin, for himself. Kuryakin met the challenge. 

Although gone, vestiges of the dark-haired woman remained. Kuryakin could still smell her perfume, a clean and sharp Chanel. Beneath it, the apartment smelled sweet and warm, a testament to Solo’s penchant for home cooking, challenged only by a breath of the cold air outside.

“It is that easy?”

Solo couldn’t help the faint smile ghosting over his features. “To trade her company for yours? Always.” 

Kuryakin shifted, suddenly finding comfort an impossible goal. “Is that safe,” he asked, “Giving out keys to your apartment?”

“I've never had a problem stealing them back,” Solo reasoned.

Absently, Kuryakin nodded. He didn’t doubt Solo found any particular form of theft difficult--personnel files, keys, hearts. He stole whatever he pleased, and found more joy in the taking than in retaining any one thing. 

Kuryakin shook his head, then, in a bewilderment he kept to himself.

Solo wasn't dressed as casually as he had during Kuryakin's last visit. Now, in addition to slacks, he wore a crisp white shirt and a vest. A matching grey suit jacket was laid neatly over the small chair at the kitchen table. The back of the vest--which Kuryakin could only see just over Solo’s shoulder--was a contrasting, vibrant red. The color was deep and affecting; Kuryakin imagined if he laid a hand on it, it could come away smeared red. 

He dismissed those thoughts, and let his eye wander to the cool blues and grays that defined the quiet side of Solo’s life. “I wonder if I should not be here. If… I should have followed you to restaurant, park.” _Wherever it was you planned to go,_ Kuryakin thought, but did not add. He expected Solo would have a thing or two to say as to how effectively Kuryakin could give chase. 

“I suppose that depends,” Solo mused, “If you feel threatened here.”

“Threatened? No.” Kuryakin hesitated to answer truthfully, but getting a lie past Solo--at this juncture--seemed unlikely. He shrugged, tried to make light of himself when he admitted quietly: “I feel exposed.”

Solo winced. The huff of laughter Kuryakin had tried to generate sounded hollow. Solo imagined he could walk right through it. “As good as, then.”

“No. Is worse.”

And Solo knew he had a point. When threatened, a spy still had options. He could obfuscate, muddy the waters of any accusations or suspicions in an effort to maintain his cover. Once exposed, a spy's only concern was his life.

And, between the eyes and the cane and the white-knuckled hand that held it, Kuryakin looked as though he intended to surrender his. 

“I need to tell you,” he started, looking to the floor all the while, “When I was in the infirmary, I received call from Oleg--my superior.” Kuryakin forgot that Solo had met him, in fact, but he did not like to think of the time before their partnership. In particular, Kuryakin did not want to conjure those memories of the outdoor cafe, the mission laid out before them, and the wary familiarity between their handlers. Kuryakin made the joke about leashes, but he'd been the silent figure sat next to his master, heeled like a dog. 

He as much as admitted it, now. Calmly, he said of his fateful phone call, “I asked if I was ever coming back. Because… if there was no hope, I would consume a lethal amount of morphine, and end my service that way.”

Solo wiped a hand over his mouth as if to muffle his wordless dismay. He had Kuryakin's name on his lips-- _Illya_ \--but what next? A warning was overdue, a plea useless. Solo said nothing, and supposed of any forthcoming blame that it would be his to carry alone. 

Kuryakin continued, and his words seemed to shred themselves passing the small, hopeful curl of his lips--an unholy thing with all the trappings of a smile, but all the pain of a sob. “He said, _do not be so hasty.”_

That he appeared wholly unmoved by this news was, perhaps, Solo’s greatest con. “Why should you need to tell me that?”

Kuryakin looked embarrassed, and Solo had his answer: Kuryakin thought he would care. 

And Solo _did,_ but it was so much more satisfying to pretend otherwise. Solo was a cold snap in the fall, a bite of air and chill that killed the earth and shook the trees naked well before their time. He liked--very much, and more each time he laid eyes on it--the sight of Kuryakin stripped bare. 

“Are they going to bring you back in?”

Kuryakin did not have an answer for that.

“You don’t know,” Solo supplied. He felt a brazen flash of heartbreak for his partner, but chalked it up to simple sympathy. Solo had lived hundreds of lives where wanting something never made it so. Of those, he'd survived dozens of promises from his CIA handlers that if he survived some particularly dangerous mission or another, he'd win months--up to six, in some cases--off his term. Solo alone added them up, but the time was never given. Why they should think a man needed extra incentive and would not instinctively do everything in his power for his own life, Solo did not know. That is, until he met a man who lived only to serve his cause. Then, it terrified him that there were such individuals, walking the earth as they they, too, were human.

And he realized this was how criminal masterminds and power-hungry mad men alike could stand to rule the world: there were men like Kuryakin willing to lay down their lives. They could be taken in and made to think anything less than the willing surrender of their entire being was, at best, larceny, and at worst--treason. 

Solo couldn't stand for that Kuryakin. Could not stand that he should look to death and try to smile, but not know how. “I think you’ve already broken rank, Peril. I think… the KGB has long known it. Maybe, had you killed me for the disk, or killed me at all, and returned home, you’d be in better standing.” Solo wet his lips. It was not a wise thing to tempt Kuryakin towards violence. “Perhaps that’s what they’ve been waiting for.”

“No. No. _I_ am waiting--” 

“They’ve cut their losses.”

“No.” Despite his firm tone, Kuryakin sounded desperate.

“You could kill me, and know for sure.”

Kuryakin looked at him, pained. “I cannot--”

“Then there's your answer.” Solo found himself wanting to shout so that his beliefs might be heard, but it was never his style. He did not even know where to begin, how to summon that strength of voice in his small apartment. He thought for sure it wouldn't fit, and spill out the windows or through cracks in the floor. “They don't want your muscle, Peril. They want your soul. Believe me, I know.”

And, because he knew Kuryakin would never ask after it, Solo spoke freely of the lessons learned during his CIA detainment--the side of the story never published in his files. “It's one thing to risk your life for a cause. It's another to be sacrificed to the game. But--to be sent to a battlefield without a directive, intel, or even a clear answer as to whether you're entering a war? This is how they kill you, Illya. And this is how they make it your own fault.” 

And Solo watched as Kuryakin, under the brim of his hat and the weight of his brow, mentally swam against a great tide of complacency. For a moment, there seemed to be nothing for it. He seemed to have drowned. 

In Kuryakin’s mind, the two were inextricably linked: Solo stood in the way of Kuryakin’s relentless efforts to please his handlers and reclaim his family’s dignity. Solo would clear him of many restrictions, but only in the sense that he'd be in free fall.

Kuryakin stood up from the couch, fast as a shot. His set jaw and clenched fists spoke of an anger he could not contain to mere words. But his injured leg buckled, pain spilled over his face like acid, and just as he was poised to tip, Solo was at his side. His aid was shared without question--his arm just where Kuryakin could grasp it, his strength where Kuryakin's cane had fallen to the floor with a raucous clatter.

Once returned to his seat, Kuryakin shrugged off Solo’s help and took up his cane, held it firm. His voice was less steady as he grasped for a defense. “This is only--only because of what you know, what you _think you know.”_

In stark contrast to his partner, Solo defaulted to his cold, formal manner of speaking. "It is only because of what I know that I make it my opportunity. But I promise you, it is not the cause."

“You said you believed me.”

Solo sighed. That had been, most assuredly, one of those lies he swore he'd never made.

Kuryakin held him in place with a stare. “What do you really think?”

“I think… I was being kind.” It was an act of will that Solo could say this to Kuryakin's face. That he could say it at all, really, without tacking to it his razor-sharp wit or smooth theatrics was a genuine assessment of himself that--for once--Solo made without sights to have it reward him. It was then he realized he'd given up. 

Again, Solo wiped a hand over his mouth. The gesture lingered on, and Solo rubbed absently at the short hairs along his jaw and neck. His own hand was warm and of some comfort, a feeling Solo thought he should be resigned to, now. “And I think I should not press this issue with you again. If that is what you want.” 

“The issue…” Kuryakin swallowed.

“It upsets you. Clearly. And I quite like my home furnishings.” The nod to Kuryakin's psychosis was unexpected, and even Solo made a face at his saying so, and he was quick to issue a retraction: “That's not fair, I know. If it were that simple, you'd have leveled the city by now.”

There was some truth to his statement, however inflated. Much as how Solo was a born dissembler, Kuryakin was a natural mammoth force. Even the KGB hadn't put that in him, though they exploited his strength at every turn. 

“You will not,” Kuryakin started to echo, but cut himself off from anything he would deem incriminating. 

“I have some modicum of self control,” Solo drew out. “And I should like to work with you again.” 

The look of abject surprise on Kuryakin's face was one he'd been expecting, though the implication stung all the same. That Solo could not stand to refrain from having a bedfellow he'd decided to want was an accomplishment, a slow and steady victory for which Solo was not expected to claim. It demanded too much of everything Solo was of short supply: patience, humility, respect. He'd reached it rather simply--had, even, back in the infirmary when he was still of a mind to argue his way into Kuryakin's heart. It was a supplementary point then, but all that mattered, now: “You care if I live or die. I don't suppose that's changed?”

Kuryakin's eyes widened, then set themselves downcast as he shook his head. “No. Of course not.” 

Solo tried to smile. It hurt. “Then we are agreed.” 

In all, making such an all-encompassing concession hadn't been his plan until the moment he saw Kuryakin staring up at his window from the sidewalk below. Before then, Solo had long expected to wait out the unease, re-evaluate the situation, and try again. But Kuryakin's visit, marred by such flinching discomfort, made Solo realize there was more at stake here than what he saw to be a tender little truth unearthed from their partnership. What _Kuryakin_ stood to lose towered over what he might gain; his sanity was already threatened by the mere prospect of a life unhinged from the pillars of service, strength, and allegiance to his country’s cause. It fled him at the mere mention of disloyalty. Would it not shatter, then, at the consummation of Solo’s offer?

“Other people care if you live or die.” Kuryakin said, this argument made solely in the banal hope it might discredit Solo’s own. “Most everyone you meet, probably. Are turned one way or the other.”

Solo smiled at that. “I wouldn't like to know the breakdown of those terms, truth be told.” Humor soon failed him, and Solo was left with the chilling reality of his newfound life at U.N.C.L.E: he was an asset, to be sure, but borrowed property. And a proxy power had even less sense to care for the toy of another agency. Solo believed nothing malicious on U.N.C.L.E’s part, but he could imagine a time when others would come along into the service and his shadow wouldn't reach like it once had. If not otherwise killed, he'd be abandoned to death on death’s terms.

“And you know that's not what I mean. Who cares to _do_ anything about it?”

Kuryakin drew his cane into his lap after realizing that his holding a hand over it, erect, gave the impression he simply could not wait to leave. Laid over his legs instead, Kuryakin supposed the thing stood now like a chastity belt. He moved it again to the empty space beside him. 

The whole dance bemused Solo, who thought a swift departure was exactly what Kuryakin was angling for. But for however much he fidgeted, and for how often his gaze darted to the door, Kuryakin never followed suit. He looked down at the floor between his feet. 

“What will you do.”

Solo rolled his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. “Sleep with other people, generally. And I won't tell you about it, unless you present an interest.”

Kuryakin made a sound like amusement, but Solo--unable to see his face--could not be certain. 

“But,” Solo turned his head and glanced out the window. He saw daylight diminish beyond the buildings that made up his impressive view. With a tenacity Solo could only compare to man’s own thirst for conquest, light hugged every right angle, clung to every rooftop, and hid in every tree until it faded into oblivion. Every evening, this epic battle played out between window panes and tasteful curtains. Solo almost didn't feel worthy. 

He realized he'd lost himself momentarily. He glanced at Kuryakin--who was watching him in earnest, now, in the rare instance Solo’s focus was drawn elsewhere--and quirked his eyebrows in a goofy, humble gesture. He repeated himself and continued, “Just so you know I haven't done all this and still come out on top… I know that you may never entirely trust me again. For that, I am immensely sorry.” 

By design, Solo’s words carried a dull sort of finality. He couldn't bring himself to paint them over with faux-friendliness or ease; it wasn't in him to lie to himself. 

But Kuryakin looked uneasy, still. He wet his lips and drew his hands down his thighs, his callouses making a soft sound down the wool of his trousers. Once, twice Kuryakin's hands made the desperate trip, hip to knee. And Solo realized he had perhaps misread the situation altogether. It was just like him to think Kuryakin had come all this way to hear Solo’s say on the matter, rather than to have his own. 

“But perhaps I'm getting away from myself,” Solo said, and was quiet. Kuryakin seemed to crave the silences between their conversation, and especially needed one, now. Solo had said something new--his gentle tone alone ensured it. Neither insult or apology, it was at once an invitation and a concession.

And Kuryakin blushed again--furiously so--and when it fell away he seemed to pale considerably. Solo continued to hold his tongue.

“What is it… What do you…”

 _What do I get out of this?_ Solo finished the thought. Now, it was a genuine challenge to _not_ smile. “I should think that's obvious.” 

Showing his hand was an incredible concession--and a dangerous one. Solo was a shrewder man than most, but in this instance naked honesty served him well. 

“There are words for this,” Kuryakin muttered, mostly to himself but there was nothing he could say, it seemed, aloud or in his own mind, that Solo couldn't catch.

“There needn't be.”

“There _are,_ ” Kuryakin pressed, his tone suddenly white-hot. He looked ashamed for his outburst, though in truth he carried those feelings for what he had to say, next. “When things are done, there are words. Will you say them?”

It was unclear to Solo if Kuryakin needed his promise for discretion, or if he well and truly wanted to name their deed. Not wanting to concern Kuryakin with the language, Solo expertly dodged the request. He grinned, small but sure, and asked coolly, “Am I changing your mind?”

“You are truly arrogant,” Kuryakin huffed, “If you think you have any influence over my actions.”

“I think I have every influence,” Solo said, then leaned forward and left his seat by mere inches. His leg pressed firmly against Kuryakin’s as he reached beyond him to collect a mint from a decorative little dish where it sat at the far end of the coffee table, balanced atop a small stack of books. Solo’s retreat was a smooth one, and it was as if the mint had been his sole desire all along. He leaned comfortably into his chair and popped the mint into his mouth. “I am just that arrogant.” 

Solo had weighed the risks. This advancement was not made because there were no repercussions, but because there were so many. This was Solo toeing the cliff’s edge because the view was spectacular, and because maybe even the fall would be worth an extended glance. 

Solo’s penchant for risky maneuvers unnerved Kuryakin; this one especially. Kuryakin looked away, as if retreating from the moment might erase it entirely. 

Always the contrarian, Solo reached forward and pulled him back. 

He took Kuryakin's hand--first just the fingers, holding them, turning the cold digits warm. His trigger finger was one Solo had observed in his capacity as friend and foe, but it was a wonder, now, to know it by touch. He traced the mountain range of Kuryakin's knuckles, each thick from breaks, the skin tough and scarred. Slowly, Solo’s touch turned exploratory. He turned Kuryakin's hand over in his own, and traced with his thumb the lines splitting Kuryakin's palm. 

"You're teasing me." Kuryakin said, his voice choked and shallow. He could only watch, dumbfounded, as Solo held that small part of him. "I do not know why. I don't--I don't know anything anymore."

Solo’s touch was impossibly gentle, and Kuryakin's skin equally tough. He was lost in his task, and seemed not to even hear himself when he answered, his voice thick as wool, "Why would I?"

"Why do you do anything?" Kuryakin asked, and shuddered when Solo’s inquisitive touch grazed the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his hand to Solo, asked, "How far will you take this to prove a point? To laugh about it later?" 

Solo had hold of a fist, now, but he toyed with it all the same. "I am a fool,” he said, then looked at Kuryakin, stared hard and drew him completely in his sights, as though he was of a mind to take deadly aim. “I haven't said it, yet, have I? I _want_ you.”

Solo did not add his sticking point: _I want you as desperately as you need to be wanted._

Solo pressed his fingers to the soft of Kuryakin's wrist, felt his racing pulse. It was more of a response than Kuryakin could bring himself to formally give.

“You could be safe. But. Isn’t this exciting?”

It was, and in ways that had long since lost their luster for Kuryakin: clandestine meetings in secret apartments, the sought company of another man, the offer that hung between them, the admission that stood with a foot in both worlds real and imagined. It was at once a fairytale and, yet, more real than anything he'd heard from the KGB in months. Here was a man, warm and tangible, when the KGB only offered--in vague terms--the suggestion to not take his own life, not just yet. 

And, surely without meaning to, Solo had become for Kuryakin a necessity, a steadfast companion when even world powers seemed frail and inconsistent.

This proved too precious a thing that Kuryakin could not refrain himself from taking hold. With a grunt of pain and a breath of relief, he lurched forward and met his lips to Solo’s. The kiss was hungrily taken, like he had willingly condemned himself to death and Solo was his last meal. Solo opened for him and Kuryakin indulged. It was nothing like the icy congress they'd shared in New Jersey; here, they generated their own warmth. Solo’s grip on Kuryakin turned from gentle to vice-like as he willed their bodies closer. Eager to comply, Kuryakin spread a hand over Solo’s back, clutching the red silk like it was Solo’s own flesh. It was slick to the touch, alien in the way all luxurious things were.

Kuryakin broke them apart, but did not pull away. They sat fitted against one another, breathing shared air. Kuryakin slumped forward as if the act had consumed everything inside and rendered him weak. He rested his head on Solo’s shoulder, where his open-mouthed breathing found the silk of Solo’s vest like a ghostly echo of the embrace they'd shared. 

“Yes,” Kuryakin said, “Okay.” 

It was the only agreement they made. 

Solo, conscious of the strain their positioning put on Kuryakin’s leg, left the comfort of his wingback chair. He spared no thought of dignity before first taking a knee on the floor at Kuryakin's feet, then joining him on the couch--a journey made without once breaking contact. 

Their movements continued, tentative and slow. It was exploratory for Kuryakin, who had only made these same motions towards women in his adulthood--out of a sense of obligation rather than pent-up desire, yes, but he had been curious, too. He'd never imagined such tenderness could be drawn from a form similar to his own. In some respects, it very much the same. Their mouths found one another, no matter the angle. Words were lost to surprised gasps (Kuryakin’s) and shuddering moans (Solo’s), the kind that struck a man’s soul, sure as lightning. Hands slipped clear of shirt collars and hems, and sought the dips and curves of the body. In this case, Solo’s broad shoulders and seemingly endless landscape of back. Kuryakin dug his fingers into the musculature he found there as if he thought Solo was made of clay, not flesh and blood. It should have been painful, but the blissful expression on Solo’s face--punctuated by blown pupils and cherry-colored lower lip caught between teeth--told him it was nothing short of exquisite. 

Solo wanted to take the favor lower, to have everything he wanted and all at once, should he only be poised to lose it again, but abstained. He could tell by Kuryakin's slow-roaming hands and heavy breaths that he was lacking for nothing, and what they had here was just and good.

But--they didn't need to be modest about it. A couch was a fine place for a casual groping, but Solo had a bed fitted with gorgeous sheets that came with a price tag nearing their threadcount. He made his intentions known, and predictably Kuryakin lowered his head, hid his unwillingness to so fully surrender. 

“Just,” Solo murmured into the corner of Kuryakin's mouth, “This. And then--sleep.” 

Solo took his exile to bed, laid him flat and, for a moment, surveyed him. His legs bent and spread to envelope Kuryakin’s hips, Solo sat upright, looking as though he were kneeled at an idol and giving praise. With his arms raised and folded comfortably behind his head, a smirk winning out over the modesty he claimed, Kuryakin looked pleased with the attention. 

He wasn’t a believer, but Kuryakin had never felt more like a god. 

Then, with ample grace and tender concern, Solo covered him. Kuryakin’s height was of little deterrent; Solo loved nothing more than a challenge. Solo decided they were a good fit--improbable, but perfect. 

Sleep, however, seemed like a foreign concept. Kuryakin could not tire of Solo’s presence, so much so that his body was nearly a secondary consideration. Kuryakin was slow to fathom the situation in its entirety; atop of him was his partner, his friend, but drawn in a great new realm of possibility. Kuryakin looked at Solo now with such awe, the likes of which previously matched only by his first glimpse at the incredible British aircraft carrier. It was such a thing he had never conceived of, a testament to untold strength and ingenuity, a sight that irreparably shifted his perception of the world. 

Cast in the fading light of a November evening, Solo proved to be a more astonishing vision.

\- 

Kuryakin rose in the middle of the night, unaware as to how he came to be sleeping when blood still sang in his ears. Solo was curled at his side, comfortable after having relieved himself of his trousers and shirt. Kuryakin had not done the same. 

Against untimely wakefulness, Kuryakin had no defense, never had. Solo’s bed was the centerpiece of the room--naturally--and Kuryakin was able to slip away, undetected. He took a slow, disjointed sojourn around Solo’s apartment. Without his cane, he moved only with the aid of the wall or protruding piece of furniture. His route laid out for him, then, he stalled at the bookshelf which had caught his attention earlier. A warm glow crept into the room from the streetlamps outside. He traced the spines of Solo’s collection with his fingers, first, and then his eyes. 

He felt his blood turn cold when he saw in Solo’s possession was a copy of the very book he had bought the day he ran afoul of Dmitri, and first visited Solo’s apartment. The book he, in a desperate rush to warn Solo of his findings, left forgotten at an outdoor cafe. 

For a moment, Kuryakin could not bear to touch it. He wondered uselessly if it had always been there, or if this, still, was evidence of his world crumbling around him. His secrets, his mother’s likeness, his desires--how much more from his life would Solo have collected? If Kuryakin turned over every piece of furniture and tore through the walls, would he find the pieces of his father the Soviet leadership had not seen fit to send back? 

If it was a question Kuryakin could have brought himself to ask, Solo was suddenly at his side to hear it. His hand touched Kuryakin’s shoulder, first, but traveled down the length of his arm until Solo had a grip on his hand. It was no tender touch; Solo meant to offer aid in the return walk to bed. But Kuryakin would not be moved. 

His hand abandoned Solo’s and retrieved the book from the shelf: _Hondo,_ by Louis L’Amour. Kuryakin had bought it because of the cowboy on the front. 

“It’s yours,” Solo said, his tone hushed. It was a simple offer--nothing more--and yet it broke Kuryakin apart. The book folded like tissue paper in his hand, and he dropped it to the floor before sinking himself to meet it there. His breath became shallow and soundless, but he pressed his hands open and covered the entirely of his face, still, to conceal himself completely. He started to shake.

His mind screamed in rejection of all that he’d done, how he'd fallen. Once lauded as the KGB’s best agent, he was little more than a degenerate and traitor. He wondered if he'd been led there or gone happily, easily, all on his own.

Although he misunderstood Kuryakin's further upset, Solo joined him on the floor, where they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. They kept in silence until dawn. 

\- 

Morning came faster than their labored movements allowed. Sunlight poured into the room, spilling over the hardwood floors where Kuryakin and Solo had sat for the better portion of their night. It was a quiet morning, filled with air so still that they could watch dust hover in the light. 

The moment Kuryakin stirred, Solo was on his feet and drawing his partner up. For a moment, Kuryakin was content for Solo’s support alone, but eventually he reached for his cane. It felt like an ancient artifact in his hands, for all that it had been absent from him the previous evening. He and Solo stood before one another, their bodies stiff, their clothes--and what little of Solo’s--wrinkled. Solo’s mouth was red from Kuryakin's stubble, and though Kuryakin knew he boasted a matching look, he couldn't help but stare, transfixed. 

“If you have second thoughts,” Solo started to say, then allowed the notion to weaken, break apart, and end. 

“You had all night, and could not think of a complete sentence?” Kuryakin tried for ease touched with good humor in his tone, movements, and presentation. Even if confusion still plagued him, he could pass his display off as a natural hinderance in unfamiliar territory. Solo was a gentleman; he would forgive Kuryakin his embarrassment. 

So, humor. Even though he wanted nothing more than to flee. Humor, because he couldn’t.

In truth, Kuryakin had spent the remainder of their night battling back the gnawing doubt that Solo was anything but sincere with him, because what man could otherwise stand to be touched for so long, so deeply, without bringing the act to completion? And Kuryakin just about had himself convinced the book was a mere coincidence. 

Solo drew his gaze over his partner, slow, deliberate, nothing like he would when casing a target. Situation assessed, Solo revved up his own act, and became the cool, unflappable professional he presented to the world. 

“Truthfully, I thought you’d be the one with something to say. I didn’t want to detract from what I presumed would be a truly _impressive_ explanation.”

The deadened look Kuryakin gave Solo was over-familiar, and Solo very nearly sighed at the sight of it. But instead of offering only a chilly, smart remark, Kuryakin surprised him. 

Quiet, and in such a reverent tone Solo thought Kuryakin might give him an _apology_ atop an explanation, he asked, “Can I trust you?”

“Yes. I should hope so.”

“And you trust me.”

Omitting what Kuryakin had done to an old, well-loved book, Solo answered honestly: “Without a doubt.”

Kuryakin snapped shut like a door, and was again his self-assured, steely Russian self. “Then explanation is unnecessary. May I use your restroom?”

Solo took the emotional whiplash in stride, and grinned. “To shower?”

He’d already started for the bathroom door, but stopped midway to answer Solo’s question. “Yes.”

“May I join you?” Quick wit and complete lack of humility had never served Solo better. It was a disappearing act; he had merely followed into the place Kuryakin was hiding. “Two showers seems… unnecessary.” 

Kuryakin’s face held the beginnings of a smile, however shy. 

“Ah,” Solo remarked, again feeling as though he’d managed to make more luck for himself than sense. “There. Finally.”

“What,” Kuryakin demanded. He stood a little straighter, though it caused his shoulder to arch upwards and made his leg ache terribly.

“Nothing. I worried you'd developed a reputation for misery in my absence.” Solo winked, then waved a hand. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.” 

He got to see Kuryakin blush again. It was much prettier in the morning, spread over an open face and coupled with a look just a hair’s width away from _fond,_ but closer still to _annoyed._

“Oh, and Illya?” Solo said, because amidst every other uncertainty, there was one undeniable fact: Kuryakin had become Illya overnight. It was in addition to _Peril,_ of course, which seemed unfair, given the sorts of thoughts Solo had for him in preceding months. But Solo remained Solo, unabashedly himself all the while. Only his mother called him Napoleon. 

Kuryakin straightened himself again, turned. He was at the bathroom door, his free hand wrapped around the knob. “Yes.”

Solo waited for him to meet his gaze, then held it. “There was a time I was frightened of you, too.” 

He watched as Kuryakin blinked, let his sharp eyes retreat to a place on the floor before snapping upwards again. “No,” he said, his voice soft with a look in his eyes to match. “I am not having second thoughts.” 

Kuryakin closed himself away in Solo’s bathroom, at once not believing what he’d just said. His hand went to lock the door, as was his custom, but he fought the impulse. 

He bathed quickly but kept the water running cold, needing the promised time alone. Heat was slow to leave the small room and for a moment Kuryakin stood, leaning against the main wall and seeing nothing before him but steam and the blueish tint of bathroom tiles. 

He thought of his mother’s face, the one she was seemingly left with when Kuryakin’s father was taken away. It was pale, drawn, with a look in her eyes colder than winter. He thought of her hands, once delicate for only knowing books, the weight of chess pieces, and other fine things, then finding an iron grip in them she’d never had to use before. She held her money with that grip, well-earned funds to keep her son fed and clothed. She’d developed a nervous tic when money was scarce; her index finger tapped steadily on her thigh, a muddied morse code for those looking to pay for her reputation. 

He thought of her mouth, perpetually reddened and bruised, sometimes to complement a ring of marks around her wrists or ever-narrowing waist. 

Kuryakin remembered being eleven and knowing, but still not understanding. He’d brought her two ice cubes wrapped in a cloth and asked after her hurts, when really he was bursting with every other concern-- _why are you sad, why do you cry every night, when is father coming home, can I help, please tell me how to help._

She’d pressed a bruised kiss to his forehead and told him, _That’s what men do._

Glancing at his face in the bathroom mirror, Kuryakin still expected to see that in himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some non-explicit sexual moments, as well as mentions of past sexual abuse.

A gunshot exploded a tree branch just above Solo’s head. Splinters caught in his hair and rattled pin-sharp down his shirt collar. A grimace passed over his face, nothing more. Solo was a professional. 

A hand found him in the darkness and reined him in. Solo found himself pressed into a form as thick and stalwart as the surrounding trees. Heavy and sure, a voice to match told Solo to _fall in line_ and _keep quiet_ and _do you understand me?_

“Would his majesty prefer I heed his command or answer his question?”

They waited a beat, one thought occupying both their minds: could they hide and wait out the search, perhaps double back and make an easy escape? Or did they risk being overrun by gathering forces?

Kuryakin was the first to give in; he didn’t trust luck would find him. Solo followed quickly after, deciding if there was luck to be had, he’d spent all his on the bullet narrowly missing his head. 

They raced through the woods surrounding the estate, Kuryakin near-invisible in his tactical gear, Solo standing out in his tuxedo. The white on his chest from the split in his suit jacket and the stripe of his tie night as well have been a painted target for their pursuers. For an added slight, his silken pocket square was a brilliant icy blue, and for as much as it made for a handsome addition to his suit, it was equally adept at catching the searching beams of the security team’s flashlights.

Even after he parted with the fine silken piece--loathe though he was to lose such a fine little accessory--Solo found he was lagging behind. Kuryakin's long legs afforded him a greater stride, but it was his night vision goggles that saw his speed down the right path. Solo ran a shoulder against every other tree they passed until Kuryakin threw an arm back to guide him.

“Take my hand!”

Kuryakin moved as though Solo’s body was his own. He spared the narrow passageways between linked trees and opted instead for the routes Solo could manage. It should have felt unnatural, to govern oneself in entire deference to the being latched on by only a hand’s grip. And yet, Kuryakin found himself moving with a grace he wouldn't have otherwise possessed. 

Their steps found the occasional downed tree branch hidden under a ghostly layer of fog. Kuryakin lost his balance once--and very nearly took Solo down with him--but Solo dug his heels into the soft earth and took on Kuryakin's weight.

The gunshots picked up as they retreated further and further from the estate, but their aim suffered. It was no small relief: these guardsmen were trained to protect a reputation, not defend a verifiable castle. They'd have had better luck firing rounds where the light still spilled from the banquet hall and dozens of golden-hued lanterns adorning the building’s grand entrance and daunting peaks. 

Thick trees and a sloping landscape only held them for so long, and the end of the woods welcomed a new opponent: the lake, and with it with a swell of lamps drawn along a small dock. A dozen small boats rocked easily along the water, oblivious to their dire circumstances. Fog licked greedily at their hulls and spilled outwards, obliterating the lake’s calm surface.

“The yellow one,” Solo instructed, pointing left along the docks to the boat he'd ridden in on along with a handful of other guests. It wasn't much your horsepower, and the little yellow awning with the scalloped ends did nothing to enhance the vehicle’s capacity for speed. There was no love lost when Kuryakin ripped the awning off completely. 

They climbed in, and in the second it took for Kuryakin to realize the boat required an ignition key, Solo had produced it from his breast pocket and thrust it into Kuryakin's open palm. He'd stolen it clean out of the driver’s hands hours ago. 

The key hinged on a promise: “You’re not going to throw me off this one, are you?”

“Hold tighter,” Kuryakin advised and--purposefully or not--squeezed Solo’s hand with his own as they broke away from the docks. 

For a motorboat, it didn't have much power behind it. Solo knew as much, having taken it across the lake with four other guests, one of whom had worn an elaborate hairstyle and completed the ride without so much as a diamond-pinned curl out of place. The motor itself was less forgiving, however, and Solo knew the cracks and low hum would draw attention. 

“Kill the engine,” Solo hissed against Kuryakin's ear. They hadn't chanced this technique earlier while lodged in the woods, but Solo thought they were due. 

Their boat whined and slowed on the water and then, as if fed into the mouth of some unholy monster, was consumed into silence on the lake, gracefully lost to rolling plumes of fog. Solo and Kuryakin ducked low and laid lengthways along the boat’s bottom. Kuryakin readied his gun, resting it across his chest like an entombed god might wield a symbol of power into the afterlife. 

Soon, when they heard the engines of four other motorboats careen past them, they knew they’d cleared the threat. This was a foggy lake on a wealthy family’s grand estate nestled high above a spread of quaint villages in Switzerland; there was no coast guard to concern themselves with. 

Kuryakin’s heavy breathing gave way to teasing--a nasty little habit for which Solo knew he was to blame. “Not very good at this whole subtlety thing, huh, Cowboy?”

“They must have had cameras,” Solo replied. He'd been rather proud of the quick and quiet work he'd made of the mission. “Seen me from a dozen different angles, probably.”

He’d made his way into their target’s locked study and secured the illicit materials--computer discs, a growing commodity in their line of work and a thing that ruined the smooth line of his suit _terribly_ \--and, instead of returning to the party as intended, he’d had to make a hasty escape out a second story window. There’d been armed men approaching from three different exits the moment he made it back to the ballroom, and they didn’t much resemble the waitstaff. 

It was a pity; Solo preferred to make the rounds and generally show his face after a soiree. The end of an evening came with the promise of easy prizes to be won--diamond bracelets and sheaves of pearls looped into tantalizingly heavy necklaces. All were ripe for plucking from their hostesses, women who had spent their night being mindful of such wares but, with a few drinks thrown back, could stand to be relieved of those responsibilities. 

“Maybe you should wear mask,” Kuryakin chided. 

Solo used his free hand to raze the hair at the back of his head and clear away the bits of tree still clinging to him. His ears felt hot, and he wondered how close the shot had truly came to taking a piece of him. “If those bullets had come any closer, I’d have to.”

Their hands were still locked in a tight embrace, one that neither man looked to or commented on. It couldn't last much longer--Kuryakin would have to steer the boat as soon as their pursuers made the return trip, again passing by their hidden craft, and still none the wiser. 

Until then, they waited. On their backs, they had an incredible view of the night sky. Stars seemed to spread in endless majesty, looming large and unconquered overhead. They burned against a charred, blackened base--something heavy and hung so loosely it seemed it could very well tip and crush them at any time. 

The longer they stared, the less black it became. There was a deeper color, drawn by a farther hand, that more closely resembled blue or purple. It grew by dimensions with every second spent looking into it, both expanding and cratering. And the swarming stars gleaming like a billion intent, animal eyes seemed to be cradling their world from the pursuits of the next. 

Kuryakin made an involuntary sound: a sigh that quickly frayed and settled into a aching whine. 

Nothing in their world or beyond could satisfy Solo as sure as the man at his side. Though his eyes were on the sky, his mind was elsewhere. With a sophisticated breed of subtlety, Solo took their hands--once clasped out of necessity--and reformed the gesture. He turned the knot of fingers into a figure like lace, delicate but timeless. He relearned the hills and valleys of Kuryakin's knuckles, and imagined entire lifetimes spent exploring them. When Kuryakin rolled over, Solo thought he'd taken the hint. 

They read one another's touch like a script. And here, the cue here was to kiss him. 

Instead, Kuryakin plucked a woodchip from where it had lodged itself between Solo’s crisp white shirt and his suit jacket. A section of the lapel was accented with black velvet, a thing Kuryakin had thought silly and needless when he'd seen Solo packing it days ago. Now, against a cold that pierced the skin and did not stop until it struck bone, it seemed a smart and handsome choice. Kuryakin dragged his thumb along the fabric. It was a rich and luxurious thing on its own merits, but Kuryakin had other reasons for coming to such a conclusion: the little detail had spent the evening with Napoleon Solo, draped around his neck like a lucky woman. 

While Kuryakin searched for any wounds along Solo’s neck and hairline, Solo found his touch to be careful and tender. Even in lieu of a kiss, it was almost as good. 

-

They fled the village that night, and in a stolen German car drove well into morning to reach the nearest city. Solo dozed, but Kuryakin wanted a bed. He woke Solo well after he’d stopped and procured a room, in large part to keep Solo from having any say in the matter. Kuryakin felt it in his drooping shoulders and lumbering steps: he was bone-tired. Bringing Solo into the discussion would undoubtedly mean surrendering to his wants, and Kuryakin was not in a mood to compromise. 

“I didn’t realize a bed was _all_ you wanted,” Solo remarked as he surveyed the room. It was genuinely bare, save for a bed. Even the phone was reduced to a place on the floor. The walls were grey with old wallpaper, once a pale blue with a clunky white chevron pattern, but since overcome with age. Solo imagined it as frontier country, all dry interior and no coasts, nothing of culture. In his dapper tuxedo, there couldn't have been a greater distinction drawn between the room and its occupant. He sighed, added, “Your love-affair for barren living is taking its toll on me. There isn’t so much as a footstool-- _not even a chair._ ” 

“Lack of chair negates need for footstool. Is simple.” Kuryakin knew as soon as he said it that _simple_ did not ring as the intended compliment to Solo’s ears. He added in haste, “I thought you would share my interest in the bed.”

But Solo was still on a tear, pacing the room like it was a prison cell meant to hold him. He could have laughed. “Living like this. Honestly. If I didn’t know you, I’d take you for some kind of Christian.”

“Some kind of Christian,” Kuryakin scoffed. He set down his bag, purposeful, like he'd laid claim to the territory. “Then what are you?”

“Some other kind,” Solo said, and winked mischievously. 

Kuryakin stood firm on his choice. “This is all we need.”

Realization dawned over Solo’s face, and he looked giddy with the outcome. “This is you being _romantic,”_ he grinned, and looked upon the room with a newfound understanding. It was a touch raunchy, all things considered. “I should have guessed.”

“Shut up,” Kuryakin said. He was already unzipping his jacket and slithering out of his sweater. 

“Not so subtle,” Solo teased while sauntering over to Kuryakin, hands heavy in his trouser pockets, his walk loose and casual. The compliment Waverly had given him during their first unofficial meeting--that he was _good with his hands_ \--was a colossal understatement; the trick with the tablecloth was child's play. That he could slink his arms around Kuryakin's waist without the man noticing, and then cinch his hold with some surprising strength was a real test of his skill. He saw Kuryakin's eyes widen, his pupils dilate, and knew there was desire there, buried deep from a lifetime of denouncing it. “But I can appreciate the effort.” 

Solo’s hair, once slicked and neatly styled _just so_ for crashing an elegant party, was since dampened by sweat and fog, and returning to its natural curl. It crossed Solo’s forehead like an oil-slicked ocean wave. His eyebrows climbed to reach it, expectant. 

Kuryakin's tongue traced the break in his lips, but that was all Solo got. Kuryakin looked down and away. 

“I am tired,” he said. Then, quietly, “The bed is for sleeping.”

There was a time Solo was dismayed that an explanation seemed vital to Kuryakin, that he preferred to know precisely what they were doing, where, when, and to what end. And, if he was in turn uncertain, he'd shut down completely. Solo rarely talked of these things himself, however, and was reluctant to throw away every twist and turn he had planned. In all, it made for a slow progression. And there were times that Kuryakin's denial was so strong, his refusal absolute, that Solo wondered if they'd stepped afoul of some greater plot. Kuryakin's appreciation of Gaby, most notably. 

And yet.

Every touch was a gift. Every kiss took a breath deep from Kuryakin's lungs, something Solo tasted like wine, aged and special. Every stolen glance was a joyous occasion. To take in these incremental offerings, to delight in them like a long meal, and still ask for something else seemed a crass move. Solo was firmly Kuryakin's partner, but in these dealings he often felt his behavior should be polished like a guest’s. 

He took a denial and saw it for an invitation. He smiled, stripped down like Kuryakin had done, and joined him. 

There was something inherently safe about a quilted blanket heavy with floral designs, and something moreso about slipping under it and finding Kuryakin. Solo had a proclivity for sex, not a compulsion. It took half an hour, but he came to sleep soundly beside his partner, mirroring his frame. 

But traditions held, and even sleeping together was often a trial: they were large men, and while Solo was accustomed to sharing space and being mindful of a bedfellow, Kuryakin was less experienced. He rutted around in his sleep, postured for ownership of the covers, and awoke periodically. Solo did not hesitate to admonish Kuryakin for this behavior, and in time sharing a bed became a humbling experience. Either wrapped in Solo’s arms or fit against his smaller form, Kuryakin found a restfulness he had never known. When a lifetime of training taught him stillness and alertness were one in the same, it was difficult not to mistake sleep for a battle to maintain the status quo. 

Sleep was--and remained--a greater obstacle, and thus the greater prize. That they had consummated their relationship, too, was nothing to snort at. But it had happened just the once and in a flurry of such haste that it hung between them more like a strange, shared delusion than an act as profoundly intimate as a night spend soundly together. 

Solo had extended the favor after a mission--the first Kuryakin had taken after he was deemed fit to do so. Nothing so dangerous, but communications were down and Kuryakin's status had been a mystery to him for four days. Solo remembered that the first thing Kuryakin did when Solo got his hands on his belt was to shove him away. Even before Solo regained his balance, he'd seen the regret in Kuryakin's eyes. He set his hands in place once more, deliberate and sure, and asked, _“Shall I try that again?”_

And with minimal skill but no lack of effort, Kuryakin had returned the favor. 

But then, Solo hadn’t seen Kuryakin for _another_ four days, during which Kuryakin observed a kind of self-imposed banishment. The whole affair very much echoed a practice Kuryakin had adopted since the start: on those slow weekends or chance weekdays he stayed in Solo’s company, at Solo’s apartment, Kuryakin left early in the morning. Ahead of the birds, even. Were he any other bedfellow, Solo might have warned against venturing out into the city at such an hour, but he had no recourse to hold a trivial thing like _personal safety_ over Kuryakin's head. It was a practice he would continue for the next half-dozen of their meetings, until Solo put it bluntly: _"I'd rather you stay."_

(Sleep-logged and weary, Solo’s request was mumbled wet into a pillow, and his grip on Kuryakin’s departing form hinged on fingertips, nothing more. He was surprised, come morning, that Kuryakin had stayed.) 

And though Solo had led Kuryakin over lines he was ultimately pleased to cross, Kuryakin himself was never one to instigate intimacy, beyond reciprocating what Solo had started. But when Solo touched him, toyed with him, and drew him into bed, it was like flipping a switch. 

_“You’ve corrupted me,”_ Kuryakin once told him in no uncertain terms. He’d had his nose pressed flat against Solo’s chest at the time, because touching him was no longer enough. His grip wasn’t enough, his mouth _wasn’t enough._ Kuryakin now needed to _inhale_ his partner. 

And if the laugh that rumbled low through Solo’s belly didn’t split Kuryakin apart, the hand in his hair did. And Solo answered him like a prayer, swearing, _“It was my singular pleasure.”_

Kuryakin awoke with that moment in mind. It returned to him so often in his dreams that, sometimes, he believed he'd invented it. He groaned and shifted from his back to his belly. The thought stirred so warm in his gut that he wondered if he’d be sick before he was forced to take himself in his own hand. 

It-- _Solo_ \--consumed him. Not the dream or memory, but the man himself. Solo had a kind of hold of Kuryakin the latter man was unable to aptly name. _Partner,_ like _friend,_ was too vague. _Lover_ might have been suitable for those nights spent in Solo’s apartment, but seemed to negate the violence that befell them outside those sacred walls. 

Solo was a _consumption;_ he took from Kuryakin as much as he gave, and was always in demand. More than Kuryakin thought possible, more than he knew was befitting a KGB agent, more than he could even _stand,_ he needed this man. He shut his eyes tight, but couldn't return to the vision behind them. 

He drew in a breath and placed himself: Bern, Switzerland. He compressed the last few days into a neat package, a practice he acquired during his KGB training, largely as a means of collecting the names of those he’d had to kill, and recognizing them one last time before banishing them from his memory. The task proved easier now--U.N.C.L.E did not capitalize on Kuryakin’s particular skillset except incidentally, instead favoring the levying of criminal charges. There were far fewer names to remember. 

Kuryakin knew this much: the stolen computer disc was secured in his belongings. Solo, always one to be dropped into the lion’s den, had scrambled their plans. Caught, seen, discovered--Kuryakin realized he hadn't explicitly asked. All that mattered was that Solo had taken his hand and, with speed and forethought, they'd found success. 

Kuryakin opened his eyes. He decided that was not a thing he’d soon come to forget. 

Outside their little room, the sky was flat and grey, with darkened clouds so pervasive and stretched that there wasn't a shred of relief to be found. It looked close to night, but Kuryakin knew he couldn't have slept for more than a couple hours. There was snow on the windowsill, a perfect little gathering to remind Kuryakin of the approaching new year. 

He turned on his side to find that he was alone. There was Solo’s pillow, and the quilt and sheets were thrown back to reveal he’d placed a towel on the bed. More than that, he'd left in his wake a strange smell.

Sat up in bed, Kuryakin looked to the only place that offered concealment: the small attached bathroom, where the door was open a crack. Kuryakin could see the toilet was unoccupied, and didn’t hear the shower running. In only his underpants and t-shirt, Kuryakin trod quietly to the door and peered inside. He saw Solo, still shirtless. He’d drawn his trousers up to his waist but left them unfastened, and Kuryakin saw a wealth of dark hair sinking low between the split of tuxedo pants and the shine of a zipper. There was space enough for his hand, if he dared to venture there. 

And yet the sight of him--at once so complete in its rendering of virility and desirability--was wrong. He was hunched and vehemently scrubbing at his underpants, themselves soaked in a sink bath. 

Kuryakin traded the fantasy for the facts: Solo’s absence, the smell. 

Solo had pissed himself. 

The towel laid in his place and the quick attention to his soiled clothes spoke only to his problem-solving nature; it was the resigned look on his face that told Kuryakin this was no bizarre occurrence. This had happened before.

Suddenly, Solo’s nudity wasn’t that--it was nakedness. He wasn’t parading or putting on a show, he’d been caught. _Pants down,_ as it were, except that he’d had shame enough to pull them on. As the realization struck, his voyeurism felt like surveillance, and Kuryakin looked away immediately. 

Kuryakin was lighter on his feet than expected, and there was a fair possibility Solo hadn’t yet detected his presence. The bed--old and worn, without so much as a box spring base--could be his retreat. The prospect of returning to sleep and ignorance was very real. Kuryakin even believed that he _should,_ because for all his showmanship, Solo was a proud and private individual. 

As to why the situation felt so unreal, Kuryakin realized he had nothing to compare it to. He’d _gone_ to Solo with all his pain, held it in his hands over files and photographs, and gone again when he thought he’d discovered Solo’s. It was wholly unknown to him whether Solo would have spoken of his torture without Kuryakin’s prompting. And again, Kuryakin was in such a position to force Solo’s hand. 

He remembered Solo’s plain-spoken words after New Jersey. Kuryakin did not think he had the answers to Solo’s predicament, but he knew better than to believe Solo wouldn’t have found some if the situation were reversed.

 _This is how it is done,_ Kuryakin decided. _This is how you love a man. You decimate his fears._

He came to his conclusion between two steady heartbeats. 

Kuryakin stepped forward until he was just shy of entering. His toes curled over the wood flooring and towards the tiled linoleum of the bathroom, and he felt as though he was poised on a cliff’s edge. 

“Cowboy?”

For a moment--one so painfully drawn Kuryakin felt it wedge between his teeth--Solo continued on as though he was still undiscovered. The small article of clothing was clenched in one fist, and attacked with the other. A small piece of soap leftover in their room from the previous occupants snapped in half as Solo drafted it into his task. He stopped, let the evidence drown in the sink. He turned and faced Kuryakin. 

“The photos. Looking at them--it didn’t work.” 

The admission came out over-loud. It was Solo’s only tell, a sense of self-distrust because lying came so easily to him and he was so practiced in the act. Whatever truths he had might be whispered or shouted; Solo had never in his life found an even voice he didn’t sooner attribute to a lie. 

Solo shelved his hands on his hips, posturing as though it was Kuryakin who had something to answer for. It was forgivable; Solo rarely felt compelled to admit anything he'd rather not, yet there was no hiding himself from this matter. The room stank of it. 

He continued, his tone a harsh turn from Kuryakin's softened inquiry: “I still--there were consequences. After effects…” He trailed off, unable to state the obvious: _More than scars, worse than dreams. I feel them to this day._

Solo thought of all the headaches and isolated fatigue, the tingling sensation that seemed to paralyze a limb and cause his sense of balance to abandon him. The pain he sometimes felt searing through his chest, seemingly doubled by the daunting realization that it was unnatural. All were uneasily faced, but none professed the same kind of indignity as this: wetting himself like a child. The first time it happened Solo was disappointed not to find that blood was the culprit--something he could attribute to the occasionally rough and tumble life he led. Piss, while technically exactly that, was nonetheless a challenge to read as anything more than unconquered fear. And as such, it disquieted Solo’s entire being. 

Bitterly, Solo concluded, “I haven't survived anything.”

They weren't words he felt adept at saying. They crowded his mouth like he'd been made to chew through mud and stone, but worse than an ugly mouthful, they tasted sharp as lies. There was never a thing in his life that he hadn't, in some scarce measure or another, come out of on top. He'd made it out of the war with a new career, escaped prison for a line of work previously unimagined. And though he'd escaped a cruel man’s torturous intent to mutilate and kill him, Solo couldn't claim to see the success.

Privately, he believed the haunting pains were a referendum for having given up and surrendered himself to a terrible fate meant to make his last hours so unbearable that he would welcome death. Even after Kuryakin's arrival, Solo was convinced he'd succumb--if not to his wounds, then certainly to his acceptance of failure. 

“Is fine,” Kuryakin told him, his voice an unintentional whisper. He still hung in the doorway, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. 

Solo chanced a smile, something small and born of hurt and humiliation. It was a gesture he kept in reserve for Sanders, and this was the first Kuryakin was seeing of it. And just that, the terrible little lie he wore on his face was another for the column, because on his honor he had made an unspoken promise to Kuryakin for precisely this: the truth. Honesty in all things physical and spoken and shared; it was the only way they could survive the other, best the game. 

And now he was lying about piss. 

Solo worked his jaw until it clicked. He shook his head, a mimed apology for what he'd decided to show Kuryakin--the lie, the truth, everything. “Christ. I sullied literally everything in the room.”

Suddenly, Kuryakin was three steps into the bathroom and an inch from Solo. His eyes were dark and possessive, and he looked at Solo as though his sole fault was untimely humor. 

“We do not need bed.”

Solo closed and opened his mouth, ready to demand if Kuryakin had even heard him. He wanted to shout, _My body is betraying me. There’s nothing for it, it’s done. I’ve lost._

And Kuryakin repeated, “We do not need the bed.”

It was understood--unspoken--between them: _We don’t need anything else._

“No?” Solo felt Kuryakin’s hands not on his own, but at his naked middle. They rested on his sides, balanced at the jut of his hip bone, the place where his trousers were prone to cut across when the tailoring was _just right._ Long fingers reached the curve of Solo’s ass, and if they spread they'd have found the split. But he did not presume. 

“No.”

And Kuryakin sank to his knees. 

-

It almost happened in France. 

They were crowded in a small bathroom with Gaby, treating one another’s wounds like young sisters might congregate to braid each other’s hair. There were bruises, lacerations, and the odd burn at most, but it was generous given such a messy escape. 

Gaby was sat on the bathmat, her back against the tub. Solo was on her right, having taken the only acceptable seat in the room. He had cleaned the gravel from the cuts in Gaby's shoulder, and was putting the finishing touches on her bandages. Facing Solo, Kuryakin was sat awkwardly on an overturned trash bin. His long legs rose, split, and bent like a frog’s. It was an inelegant display made outright ridiculous by the shortened right leg of his trousers, which was singed and lost to the flames that had engulfed their car. Kuryakin's best defense was not, as it seemed, to stomp on the flames; he'd only stood in them for a time order to lift Gaby out of the vehicle and effectively _toss_ her to Solo. 

And of their little trio, the burns were Kuryakin’s alone. 

Solo’s wounds were a more intimate nature: a number of bruises and a bloody--if superficial--bullet wound to his arm. Kuryakin examined the side of Solo’s face as he waited for the bleeding to subside. “You take punch very well.” 

“Wasn't much of one,” Solo said, and smiled at Gaby because these moments concerned her, and they really needn't. They took care of each other in the field, and when that failed--they patched each other up. “That gunman had small hands. You really shouldn't have broken both of them.”

“Should not have brought hands to gun fight,” Kuryakin countered. His logic was tidy and sound.

Gaby glanced at her watch only to find the face busted in, the result of some fancy maneuvering of the getaway car. She took hold of Kuryakin's wrist, then, and turned it to see the time. 

“I should call Waverly, put this matter to bed.” She stood up and plucked at her blouse. As a result of a small tear, it had come loose from her high-waisted plaid trousers. There was a little blood on the collar, too, but Gaby was of a mind to take it to her favorite dry cleaners in New York. They didn't ask questions. 

“Careful of your splints,” Solo advised.

Gaby looked at Solo’s handiwork on the fingers on her left hand: he'd made do with materials in the bathroom--a naked and flattened toilet paper roll, most notably. The digits were still swollen, but it was a far cry from the misaligned crew she'd left a t-boned car with. 

“My manicure is ruined,” Gaby sighed. 

“Every battle has its casualties,” Solo lamented, then winced as Kuryakin drew a stitch through the soft skin near the crook of his elbow. 

“Infant,” Kuryakin chided, and readied another stitch. The bathroom was warm and getting warmer--Solo had asked Gaby to run a bath, and with the door closed and the steam rising, the notion had growing appeal. 

“At least we’re in France,” Gaby said, already planning her trip tomorrow to a nail salon. 

Solo piped up again, “French tips are an American creation, actually.”

Gaby served him a flat look; she'd lived behind the wall, not under a rock. “Yes, but the French will want to live up to the name.” 

“I disagree. They're a capricious people.”

“Illya?” Gaby pressed, a smirk playing on her lips. “Do you care to weigh in?”

“I have no opinion on the French,” Kuryakin said, and remained focused on his task. When his partners’ silence stood against him, formidable as concrete, he wet his lips, gave a near-imperceptible shrug, and relented. “I suppose they can cook.” 

“Oh, excellent,” and this time, Solo kept a straight face as a needle and thread was plucked through his flesh. “Gaby can have her nails _sautéed_ in addition to mangled.” 

Gaby rolled her eyes, gave a crippled wave of her hand, then saw herself out. 

One of the benefits of working alongside two men, she found, was that unless their covers dictated otherwise, she often had a room to herself. It was not a thing she commented on or demanded, accepting it instead as a proper side of a business that was anything but. In the privacy of her room she regaled in whatever delights it had to offer: she sampled complimentary champagne and sweets, tiptoed on the furniture, danced through her morning and evening routines, and stretched to consume as much as the bed as possible. Even in the sorry places they’d sometimes occupied--the spare rooms in a safehouse or some shabby boarding house in a town not known for its tourism--so long as she had a window with a view of anything besides that _goddamn wall,_ she was happy. 

To their credit, Solo and Kuryakin had come to accept their fates. Gaby did not know who showed more steel: Solo, in no longer bringing to bed so many beautiful women, or Kuryakin, who kept quiet as to whether or not Solo had indeed stemmed his passion to do so. 

Kuryakin finished laying stitches, and only stared at Solo’s arm, though the invitation to touch remained. 

“I will leave you to your bath,” he said. 

“You should stay. Your leg.”

“My--” The words took Kuryakin back to Solo’s apartment, to their inaugural exploration. They surprised him like an arm around his throat, hauling him to a place he wasn’t entirely sure he--even in his waking moments--wasn’t still in. He looked at the lower portion of his leg that spilled from his brutally slashed trousers. The wounds were clean, but the curling, white flays of skin remained. It looked like a partially-husked ear of corn. “Gaby did fine. Is fine.”

Solo tutted, but it carried through the small, hot room like a weighty reprimand. “The dead skin has got to come off.”

“In your bath?” Kuryakin countered, his tone glib so as to mask his skepticism. 

Solo did away with all Kuryakin’s uncertainty with a single, stolen kiss. It was decidedly chaste, but his gaze and touch lingered: with his fingers dotted along the soft skin under Kuryakin’s jaw, he tilted his partner’s head and regaled him honestly: “No, that's disgusting. Now, get two clean washcloths and the peroxide. And rest your leg here.”

Solo undressed with little fanfare; shirt, trousers, socks and lastly, his underpants. It was a cool and confident display--a far cry from when he and Kuryakin last met in a bathroom. 

Kuryakin very nearly opened his mouth and gave voice to that fact, but something kept him quiet. There was no doubt in his mind Solo was likewise reminded of the incident--likelier still that he thought about it every time they shared a bed, never mind the bathroom. 

It felt to Kuryakin like an unspoken test: that he not forget Solo’s pain, but spare his pride the reminder. 

Solo maneuvered with his back to Kuryakin, who was nonetheless given a show. Already, bruises were forming like intricate galaxies over his body. They spiraled over his back and shoulders, spread down his right arm like a shirtsleeve. Some were smaller, impressions of hungry hands, pointedly dotted around the flesh of Solo’s round ass. Kuryakin was reminded that this wild night was not Solo’s first; he'd likely found as much danger and entertainment in Gaby’s car chase as he had the night before, in bed with a manic heiress. 

Kuryakin did not let his gaze dwell on the bruises, though the prospect--however small--that they hid some left by his own hand was nothing short of thrilling. The fact that Kuryakin himself carried matching imprints behind his ear and in a line pressed along his shoulder blades was foremost in Solo’s mind. Their injuries and Gaby’s proximity, however, diminished the very prospect of exchanging more. 

Solo sank into the bath. The water, still hot, kissed his bruises in greeting. Mindful of his new stitches, he shot Kuryakin a knowing look so as to head off any coming order. He groaned pleasurably as the heat started to loosen his muscles and soothe his aches.

Kuryakin, meanwhile, did as instructed. He gathered the needed supplies and positioned himself on the toilet, then heaved his injured limb to rest on the side of the tub. Solo took one of the dry cloths and wet it methodically in his bath water. Kuryakin flushed at just that, taken by the gesture’s unspoken intimacy. It was a more damning thing than even their kiss. 

The water in the tub sloshed in slow, low waves as Solo, with a hand on the man’s ankle, held Kuryakin’s leg in place. He set about tending to the burns.

That the damage was minimal did not negate its inherent ugliness. In three spots, the skin was rendered in leathery patches and it had a cooked-over, sweaty smell. Even with only the wet tended cloth separating Solo’s hand from Kuryakin’s leg, Solo showed no evidence of disgust. He hummed along with his work, and massaged the dead streaks of whitened skin on Kuryakin’s calf until it sloughed off, revealing a layer of angry pink. Kuryakin had set the trash bin under his leg to catch what fell. He could smell himself in the bin. 

Solo proceeded to spot-treat the worst of the wound with hydrogen peroxide, then patted the leg dry with the second cloth. 

“There,” Solo said, deeming himself satisfied. 

Kuryakin thanked him, a muted little phrase he’d tried not to use so often in Solo’s presence because it seemingly brought the American such undue delight. The rest, Kuryakin did himself: he affixed the dry cloth loosely in place around his calf with medical tape. It was a simple task, tidily done. But Kuryakin remained sat in place, as it was his intent to play audience to Solo, now, and watch him unwind. The heat of the water had saw much of the task through already, but Kuryakin knew better than to set Solo’s limits. Many of the simple acts Solo performed were made unseemly by the simple virtue of his doing them. 

“Staying for the show, Peril?”

Kuryakin made a vacant kind of gesture; there was nothing in it save for his determination not to explain himself. “I read somewhere you Americans often die in bathtub.”

“I won’t say no to a spotter.” 

Solo rearranged himself in the tub, angling his back to Kuryakin's front, and stretching his legs so far that his feet broke the surface of the water. He dunked his head once, soaking his hair and ruining the neat coif. He sighed, content. For a time, reclining was all he saw in himself to achieve. He wouldn't have guessed that Kuryakin, in his silence, had busied himself with a plethora of tasks: he watched the rivulets of water stream from Solo’s head and down his neck, counted the droplets that hugged his eyelashes, and stared down those that clung steadfast to his hair. He studied and made a mental map of Solo’s muscles, noting the ones prone to twinge under this treatment, likely because they were routinely denied such care. 

Solo fished around the bottom of the tub until he'd turned up a coarse bath sponge. Sopping wet, he held it over his shoulder, towards Kuryakin. 

“Be a dear and get my back, would you?”

Kuryakin raised his eyebrows, doubtful that even Solo believed the request would be taken up. And for the benefit of surprising his partner alone, Kuryakin complied. He drew the sponge across Solo’s shoulders idly, almost in an effort to deny the request. But when the streaks of water down Solo’s back ran the odd grey, he began to scrub. 

“Is actually very dirty,” Kuryakin observed. He brought the sponge higher, just into the line of Solo’s hair. He washed away the filth born of sweat and grit of their past few days. That Solo could be practical over seductive--or, indeed, intertwine the two--shouldn't have come as the surprise Kuryakin met it as. Yet suddenly, Kuryakin was taken with his task, and he worked in quiet dedication to his new cause: Solo’s comfort. 

After completing the back, Kuryakin scrubbed over Solo’s shoulders, down his chest, under his arms. Each new location was met with methodical precision and care. 

Solo hummed to himself and spoke softly, as though he meant to have his thoughts privately, but couldn't help but make a grand production. “Hm. Do I chance giving him a foot?”

“You do not,” Kuryakin warned, and tossed the sponge into the bath, upsetting the calm. Solo huffed, indignant, but took it up himself to attend to the rest of him. Kuryakin returned to his unmet staring contest. “How was your night with Miss Ingrid Schulte?”

Solo peeked open only one eye, and even it was skeptical. “Surely you don't _really_ want to know.”

“Did she tell you anything of importance,” Kuryakin specified, and willed himself not to grit his teeth as he spoke. He would allow nothing to detract from the work, and taking up this line of questioning himself was the surest means of proving he was not so easily perturbed. Solo’s behavior was no secret, his methods practically a calling card. Kuryakin refused to be scandalized by its progression. 

Rather, he would admit to mild, professional curiosity. It was a well Solo visited often, surely that meant he got results?

“I have some names to look into,” Solo allowed. He was being purposefully vague, if for no other reason than to drive Kuryakin towards hints of spite and jealousy.

Kuryakin kept his cool. “Waverly thinks there are more of their kind.”

“Waverly sees Nazis under his bed at night.”

“You think is not threat?”

“I think there are thousands more just like it,” Solo said. He stopped scrubbing himself and let the water fall still. “Nasty little men with plump little bank accounts.”

If Kuryakin craned his neck, there was nothing he couldn't see. He didn't; it was miracle enough that he'd seen all of Solo a number of times, under weak light and in small quarters where the degree to which Solo seemed to fill them was _obscene._ Kuryakin had been presented all this with the openness and eagerness of a present, and called Solo an exhibitionist for his trouble. 

Maybe this little venture proved it, but Kuryakin did not feel so welcome to ogle. Solo was relaxing, now. Not performing. 

“How else,” Kuryakin added after a beat, “was it.” 

_There,_ he seemed to punctuate. _See? I am not made brokenhearted._

“She was eager, if a little uncoordinated. Not unlike someone else I know.” Solo gave an encouraging smile to match Kuryakin's flattened stare. “But it's her personal driver she's really after. Called me by his name not once, but _twice!_ Bit of a slap in the face, but she was apologetic for it. We chatted some about him, after. He writes her poems.”

Kuryakin shifted in an attempt to find comfort. Sat on a closed toilet, this was a losing battle. “Why is she not with him? Why sleep with others when she has found her love?” 

Solo waved a hand. “It's to do with station, his and hers.”

“She slept with _you,”_ Kuryakin countered.

“Well, I'm a baron,” Solo’s expression turned an ugly shade of proud. “It's entirely forgivable.” 

Kuryakin could more-or-less keep a lid on his anger, and patience was a thing he had in droves. But cruelty, no matter its purpose, was something he could not entertain. It touched his bones and stirred his soul, and reigned well above violence because it was not a thing brought into the world, but awoken from within its earthly agents. There was no tolerating a cruel man. And though Kuryakin did not believe Solo to be this kind of person, there was undoubtedly a streak of it in him. 

Kuryakin had it, too. Their only difference was, Solo saw no harm in doling it out for strategic gain. Kuryakin was simply unable to harness his as a conscious choice, and for fear of causing undue harm, turned it inwards. 

“You like it,” he charged, though his tone was light, as if carried by the warmth of Solo’s bath. “Charming these women, who don't know what you really are.”

“Well when you put it that way,” Solo turned over in his bath and folded his arms over the side. Water sloshed over the edge and pooled on the tiled floor. He tipped his head upwards and to the side, and looked plainly at Kuryakin. “I'd be lying if I said I didn't. But. There are things I like more.” 

“Charming,” Kuryakin said again, dryly this time, and as a clear verdict on Solo’s techniques. He moved his feet so as not to get wet. 

Solo sank back into the tub. “It's mostly oral.”

Kuryakin stilled. “What.” 

For a moment, Solo only smiled and fiddled with the teardrop faucet. It was a brass color by age, but not originally. “I stimulate these women orally so as to allow them to achieve an orgasm.”

Kuryakin was beet red. “I _gathered_ that.”

“Just… Filling you in.” Solo pulled the stopper and allowed the water to begin to drain. The moment he stood, Kuryakin was level with him, and ready with a towel in hand. Solo was in no rush to accept it. “You've listened on a number of occasions, so you know the outcome. Let me provide some scenery.” 

“Is not… Necessary.”

At last, Solo took the towel. He made slow work of it, patting down his arms and legs and torso. He spoke haltingly between these tasks, saying, “I believe it is. I believe… That you believe… I am being a _proper_ lover.” 

When Kuryakin flushed red, Solo had his answer. He rolled the towel and set it about his shoulders. Kuryakin wanted to tell him if he thought a luxurious robe was forthcoming, he was in the wrong kind of hotel. Out of spite, Kuryakin threw him another towel to secure around his middle.

“You and the CIA are in agreement, here.” Solo stepped out of the tub, then passed Kuryakin, and stood at the sink. His toiletry case--a handsome red leather number--was already open. Along with his shaving supplies and toothbrush, Solo kept an ample cache of other necessities: ointments for burns and cuts, bandages, a sewing kit. Lubricant and condoms were kept in a separate, secret compartment in his suitcase--a necessary change made when his sewing needles had once come loose and attacked his condoms like soldiers bearing beyonates. 

Toothbrush lodged in his mouth, he continued: “I’m a _terrible_ spy. Taking a woman to bed is _rarely_ in the mission statement, but I find it's the quickest means to a friendly end. Which makes absolutely no sense--who would trust a man after they’ve slept with him?”

He met Kuryakin's gaze in the mirror, and was pleased to find the other man rolling his eyes. He'd entertained these thoughts, ran them like equations and knew the outcomes as needless. The work was what it was, and fidelity was as unlikely a thing as regular hours or observing the sixth commandment. 

Solo brushed a while longer, then spat, rinsed. He fingered through the various little wrapped soaps piled along the sink, liked the smell of a lavender one, and set it aside for morning. He turned and faced Kuryakin, still his captive audience in torn pants and an uneasy look of fascination. 

“In that way and quite a few others, it's not as though I'm applying a blanket set of skills, here. It's true, I know what women like. You, now. I'm still figuring you out.”

Kuryakin suddenly felt ridiculous for having stayed at Solo’s bath, aiding him in the completion of his humdrum nightly procedures. Now, he witnessed himself in the mirror, standing awkwardly to one side as if he had nothing better to do or worse, was so possessed to watch his partner that he couldn't find enlightenment elsewhere. The fact that he'd thoroughly enjoyed himself didn't help matters--that he would do it all again in an instant, less so. His pride was suddenly at stake, and Kuryakin decided in that moment to make something of his time here, to counter Solo’s complacency with a challenge. 

Kuryakin straightened his posture, folded his arms across his chest and raised his chin. He said, “We should do it proper. Yes?”

Kuryakin always had an frayed way of speaking, even in his own mother tongue. It wasn't English that tripped him up, but competing with the words and wants of others, facing them and responding accordingly. That he could read lips and discern intentions by mere observation mattered little when contending with the open truths of a ready partner. 

But he continued, undaunted, “You should… figure me out.”

It was Kuryakin's first genuine word to their behavior, outside the act itself. And Solo was unabashedly thrilled--and quite ready, even--until Kuryakin added hastily, “Not here. Not yet.”

“Back home,” Solo said, prompting agreement.

Kuryakin gave a curt nod. “New York,” as if the phrasing required correcting. 

Solo held the rolled ends of his towel where they hung over his torso. He wore a charmed smile to complement the gesture. Even the fact that he was half naked while his partner was fully dressed did nothing to damper his mood--quite the contrary. He stood erect and formidable. 

“I must admit, I’m impressed.” 

“As am I,” Kuryakin replied, his tone chilly. “You managed not to drown in tub.” 

Solo’s smile broke wide open into a grin. Between two rows of neat, white, all-American teeth he playfully bit at his own tongue. There were times, he decided, where Kuryakin's moody disposition was unacceptable--an outright _shame_ \--when he could be so quick with a joke and yet so slow with a smile. 

His own prompted a ghost of a reflection in his partner, however, and Solo wasn't sure there was a thing in his life he was more proud of--saving the world from certain nuclear fallout, included. And it was real, Solo knew, because even the scar by Kuryakin's eye seemed to soften and rescind into the natural crinkle there, lifted by his flushed cheeks and genuine pleasure. 

Solo sighed, suddenly feeling touched by exhaustion. Their hotel room was lousy with beds: two twin sets occupied the main room, but Solo believed with a little ingenuity that they could make do. Kuryakin, with a thumb digging into his eye socket, looked ready to turn in. 

“Illya--”

Solo tapped his own cheek with his index finger. Kuryakin frowned, narrowed his eyes, and seemed to be put off by the simple gesture. Solo tapped again and Kuryakin haltingly leaned forward until the space between them had all but disappeared. Still frowning, he kissed Solo where he’d pointed to on his cheek. 

When he drew back, Solo’s mouth had fallen slightly open.

“Ah,” Solo pressed his mouth closed and found a smile there. “That was--very sweet. But I meant--you’ve got a little blood. Just--there.” 

Solo breached the space like Kuryakin had done, and wiped the offending dribble of blood away with his thumb, first. Then, in the timespan of a single heartbeat--Kuryakin’s, notably, because Solo could hear it pounding in his chest--he planted a kiss as ridiculous and tender as the one Kuryakin thought had been asked of him. It kept the expression on Kuryakin’s face from falling into _complete_ mortification, and it thrilled Solo more than he would have thought possible. 

It was like touching a tiger, spreading a hand open across its forehead, and feeling its warmth and power hum just beneath the magnificently patterned fur. 

And like an animal, Kuryakin remained skittish. 

“I… Should check that Gaby arrived to her room safely.” 

The second the door swung open, Solo lost all the warmth in the bathroom.

A simple task--and, however contrived, Solo did not doubt Kuryakin actually did it--venturing three rooms down shouldn't have taken Kuryakin the hour it did. The room was pitch black when Kuryakin returned, as Solo had given up waiting and gone to bed. Although he did not announce himself verbally, there was no mistaking the giant form that crawled into bed with Solo. 

Solo smelled the crisp outside air on him, though he couldn't imagine where it was Kuryakin had gone with half a pant leg missing. Kuryakin put a hand on his chest--cold--and was able to silently command Solo’s wakefulness and attention. 

“I know more about you than I’ve read,” Kuryakin murmured, and rested his chin in the hollow of Solo’s chest. There was alcohol on his breath, and Solo was doubly dismayed that wherever Kuryakin had gone, he wasn't invited to follow. 

“I should hope so,” Solo replied. He kept things light, wary of Kuryakin's current state. He couldn't recall a single instance of Kuryakin partaking except when offered, and even then it was--at most--a single drink. A celebratory taste or a hasty swallow to settle nerves after a rough mission. Kuryakin did not let himself indulge, not ever. “Wouldn't like to think there's a detailed rendering of my cock out there.”

“Is listed on your CIA profile,” Kuryakin hummed, “Under _distinguishing characteristics.”_

“More jokes, or is this something I'll have to thank Sanders for?”

Kuryakin's body moved against him--rattled and shook--as if to denote laughter. And yet, the man was entirely silent. Solo had the distinct desire to either flip on a light or dig the night vision goggles out from Kuryakin's suitcase; he wanted to see this seemingly impossible feat, this remarkable command of the human body Kuryakin had mastered. A full-bellied yet soundless laugh. Solo couldn't think of anything more destitute. 

Instead, he raised a hand and lost it in Kuryakin's hair. He traced his thumb around the side part and hoped it would smooth his partner’s mood. Kuryakin mimicked the move, absently kneading his hand over Solo’s chest, catching hair through his fingers and tugging pleasurably. 

He continued, his mouth hot and somewhere just north of Solo’s right nipple, “There is more uncertainties now. More to fear.”

This was unfair, Solo knew. “Illya.”

“I was worried that you would steal from me,” Kuryakin admitted, and struggled to climb Solo’s frame. He announced himself with a warm sigh against Solo’s neck. “Seems like nothing at all, now.”

“I take it you mean I've proven myself a bastion of honor?”

And there was that empty laugh again. Solo shivered as it played out clear over one side of his body, like a stroke that just missed its target. “Something like this. Yes.” 

Solo felt himself becoming aroused. With Kuryakin on top of him, there wasn't much chance he wouldn't. He remained still and could only hope that Kuryakin would remain oblivious; if he felt prompted to address it or was frightened away, Solo knew they'd both regret it in the morning. 

“I don’t want it anymore,” Kuryakin whispered into the rough stubble along Solo’s jaw. 

“What’s that?” Solo asked, and felt his heart sink straight through the bed and land several floors below. If Kuryakin meant to rescind his offer, Solo could handle it. He'd be coy about his disappointment and resolve himself to again find Kuryakin as a more willing participant. If he meant to step away completely as a point of pride-- _well._ Solo strengthened his touch on Kuryakin's head and neck. He'd make it a difficult choice.

Kuryakin made a face against Solo, something Solo couldn’t see but knew to be pinched-shut eyes and a grimace. It was decidedly more expressive than Kuryakin allowed for himself, generally, and Solo found himself feeling duped and lonely for the expression.

And then he seemed to relax, like he’d been wandering and finally happened upon a place he recognized. He said, “I do not want to die for this cause,” and Solo stilled against him.

And he continued, “I do not want… to hope that I will.” 

Solo guessed he’d sobered himself by that thought alone. He lifted his arm and let Kuryakin settle in more firmly beside him. For a time, they each retreat into the silence offered by the other. It was a false sense of security, but being there was nothing shy of serene. 

“I dream that they have you do it. A bullet to the back of my head--it isn’t even intimate.” 

“Don't get me started on the aesthetics of assassination,” Solo murmured. He felt entirely driven to sleep, but was compelled to address Kuryakin’s fears before he did. “You know they don’t have me. And if they're all dead, you'll know that they've tried.”

“Is lofty goal,” Kuryakin said, and Solo felt him smile against his shoulder. “Thank you.” 

-

New York couldn’t come quickly enough. Solo may have even expedited things to ensure their speedy return--but what was life without a few sloppy shootouts on the tiered decks of a yacht? 

Trading the grey skies of Europe for those blue New York visions crowded with skyscrapers was an unmitigated pleasure. Solo had been based in New York City since falling into line with the CIA, but his time there under U.N.C.L.E’s banner felt new and invigorating. The smaller organization didn't have the kind of money to blow loading him with secret minders, and those employed by the CIA were easy enough to throw.

He could, in effect, do as he pleased. Walk the city if the notion took him. Visit museums again, even. 

Fall into bed with a pretty face. 

Kuryakin wasn't first on his agenda, unfortunately. There was the little matter of finishing up the reports on what they'd done and who they'd gone through to do it. There was even the odd reconnaissance job in the city. Gaby returned to her solo-mission--a thing Solo knew to leave well enough alone, but Kuryakin pressed her for details on. When she conceded an explanation, he admittedly found the work she was doing to be dull. She really _was_ toppling financial institutions, but it wasn't through revolution or any means Kuryakin understood. She'd told them, _“I wear cute outfits and make photocopies. Trick is, I've got to know what I'm looking at while all these old men are looking at me.”_

It was only some three weeks after they'd made their indeterminant plans that Solo invited Kuryakin to dinner.

“Some good food, light conversation,” Solo described, as though he thought he genuinely had to sell it. 

Worst of all, he'd breached the idea at U.N.C.L.E headquarters, forcing Kuryakin to retain some level of decorum in his answer. 

Solo grinned at what he deemed an unmitigated success: through clenched teeth and an accent heavy with rage, Kuryakin gritted out, “Yes. Thank you Agent Solo. _I would be delighted.”_

Wisely, Solo saved the date and further details for a passing moment outside the walls of a worldwide spy agency. 

Three days later the evening found Kuryakin like a promised bullet; he walked willingly into it, knowing the consequences but believing the risk to be necessary. He arrived at Solo's apartment only to find that Solo had _actually prepared a dinner._ Just light dishes--some sweet, others savory, all exquisite in their rendering--and none such that they couldn't be eaten in just a few bites. Kuryakin took most of his in one. It was agonizing; he could hardly taste what he put into his mouth. 

Reality seemed to finally bend towards his efforts as Solo poured them a couple of drinks. He'd given up on Kuryakin as a conversationalist. 

Like the meal, Kuryakin tasted his drink just the once.

Kuryakin spied in on the bedroom on his way to use the toilet, and saw that Solo had prepared: he'd brought in the extra desk lamp from his living room and placed it high on his dresser. The nightstand was littered with bottles--lubricants and oils--and the sheets were thrown back. He’d also employed the aid of an extra pillow and a towel, both of which were fresh and laid out as though Solo had employed a hotel staff for precisely this--or, as was more likely, he'd simply mimicked what he’d had done for him in the past. 

Solo was in the bedroom when Kuryakin had finished washing up. Their last course, it seemed, was left forgotten. Solo had hung his suit jacket in his closet, and his skilled fingers were already to his navel, processing shirt buttons with ease. 

Having retrieved it from the bathroom, Kuryakin brought another towel to the proceedings. 

“For the blood,” he reasoned simply, and left it on what was unspoken as ‘his’ side of the bed. His matter-of-fact tone set Solo on edge. 

“For the lamb we slaughter afterwards, naturally,” Solo mused, though the look he gave Kuryakin was loaded with unease. 

Kuryakin stepped right and maneuvered himself so that he stood flush with Solo. If Solo needed convincing, he’d have it. With a steely determination that lent itself to steady breathing and precise movements, Kuryakin undressed. He held eye contact while unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his belt. He let his trousers sink to the floor in a puddle. 

With his thumbs Kuryakin dug into the elastic waist of his underpants, testing their stretch. He only shrugged them down an inch so as to showcase a spread of blonde public hair in front, and the crack of his ass, which Solo could observe in the reflection of the room’s full-length mirror. He was stood so close to Solo that it was impossible to bend his knees and bring his statement of undress to completion. 

Solo surveyed the spread. “Looks like you could you use a hand.” 

“No,” Kuryakin disagreed. “You will not use your hands.” 

-

His hair was mussed and curling with sweat when he parted from Kuryakin, leaving him naked and sated on the bed. His was a quick errand: Solo flipped the lightswitch, but kept the two lamps on. They provided plenty of light to see by, and touched their bodies with warm tones. Kuryakin had a smart remark about the staging, but swallowed it. Solo looked like a bronzed statue cast in shades of gold and--self-serving or not--it was Kuryakin who got the view. 

When he returned to bed, Kuryakin met him with a fervent kiss. This had been the evening’s entertainment for some time, though occasionally Kuryakin would break away and look to the door. 

Solo caught him at it again. “Are you expecting guests?”

Kuryakin reclined and stared dutifully at the ceiling. He studied the white spackle like he suddenly thought he'd see something new in it. He was reminded of their escape in Bern, and the view from the bottom of the boat: the entire night sky, both alight with faraway life and black as death. Although it held no such incredible depth, the plaster ceiling was magnificent in its own way. It was Solo’s.

And Kuryakin told himself that a thousand times over. This was Solo’s apartment, he was in Solo’s company. It would be different. It would be kind.

And as Solo’s mouth traveled the slow, winding route from the insides of his thighs to his middle, his collarbone, his mouth, Kuryakin could feel every independent thought leave him. It was his training, to an extent: he would give himself over in his entirety to Solo and the task at hand. It was at once a liberation--if only for his spirit--and the commitment of his body to a restless fate. 

“Tell me,” Kuryakin spoke chipped and broken between breaths and tastes, “When it is going to hurt.”

“It’s… not.” Solo’s had one hand planted firmly on the flesh of Kuryakin’s ass. The other had just wrapped around the bottle of lubricant in a vain attempt to warm the solution before its application. Both hands stilled in their tasks. _Pain_ was not a thing Solo knew Kuryakin to concern himself with. This was a man who took bullet wounds in stride, dismissed a near-disemboweling as a mere scratch, and had once-- _to escape an awkward situation_ \--walked on a broken leg. “Tell me if it starts to.”

Solo had predicted some hurdles, and in turn his imaginings depicted slow, tender lovemaking marked by long stretches of reprieve. There were contingency plans and alternatives--he'd prepared for them all. But every option all required that they at least _begin._

Saying nothing--and, more importantly, _betraying nothing_ with his touch and tones--Solo decided to spare them both the indignity of pretending Kuryakin genuinely wanted to proceed, let alone was mentally prepared for this--a form of contact he viewed as inherently violent. Solo continued to smile, and it was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. 

There were matters Solo had pushed for-- _and instigated and plotted_ \--in which they'd both been satisfied. yet he was in serious doubt that this was one such instance in which all Kuryakin needed was a little push.

“Oh,” Solo sighed, and made a show of tracing his fingers along Kuryakin's darkening cock where it jerked towards his belly, “I can't just leave it there, alone, out in the cold.” 

And without a second’s hesitation, Solo took Kuryakin in his mouth, making an entire orchestra’s worth of greedy noises. Kuryakin gasped and then fell silent. Under him, Solo felt Kuryakin’s body relax; his muscles, once tense as drawn wire, became heavy and loose. Then, Kuryakin's hand reach between his legs, because this much _he knew,_ and wanted to return the favor. Solo brushed it away. 

He found a rhythm buried deep in Kuryakin and followed it, allowed the body below his to sing. 

Kuryakin bucked his hips and arched his back into Solo’s finishing move. Somewhere in the midst of a moan, he swore, but couldn’t hear it for the ringing in his ears. 

Finished, Solo lifted his head and grinned sheepishly. He said, “I couldn't help myself,” then rolled off Kuryakin so that they laid side-by-side. 

It reeked of intention. 

And afterward, Kuryakin couldn't help but call out the sham. “Why did you do that.” 

Solo sat up and did not try to fool him again. He gestured towards the extra towel, specifically brought to mop up all the gore Kuryakin envisioned for their little tryst. His perfectly cultivated light caused the sheen of sweat on his shoulders and stomach to take the effect of molten gold. And again, for all his disinclination to believe, Kuryakin felt he was in the presence of an otherworldly being. 

“Care to explain yourself?”

“I am not uninformed.” He spoke stiffly and in defiance of what he saw as a grave presumption on Solo’s part. Kuryakin did not want to give away any trade secrets, though he doubted that was what Solo was after. He was merely curious, like any man might be, of his partner and what could be taken for unexpected situational awareness. 

Solo looked doubtful, so Kuryakin used more explicit terms: “We are trained for everything.”

That was news to Solo in more ways than one. Not that he was one to look down his nose at unconventional training; he'd done all his early sexual learning on the fly--during a war, no less. But he'd have sooner guessed Kuryakin was willfully ignorant of the task at hand, that his self-imposed prison was one of thought, feeling, _and_ intent. That belief was one he'd held since _before_ the start; it was primordial--surely, if nothing else Kuryakin was a novice in this.

It made sense, then, that Solo blurted out his question without care for how it sounded: “You had sex with a man on KGB orders?”

Kuryakin considered the statement and made a slight revision: “A man had sex with me.” 

Then he pressed his lips shut. It was, without a doubt, the first time he'd spoken to the event. The first he'd given thought to it, even, in the decade since it had occurred, in great part because Kuryakin never believed it would occur a second time. And, still, he was right.

Something swelled up inside him and promptly died, a breath taken by a punctured lung. And he supposed if he'd been harboring any feelings of hurt or betrayal, that had been them, and they'd quickly gone. The event was only that: a thing that began and ended in a small room on a training facility, on a stripped-bare bed and, then, over a cold cement floor. He'd left it behind in that room--blood and all. What mattered now was what he took from it: the knowledge and implications for later use. 

The look on his partners face was not unlike a landed fish. He managed only an inelegant, _“Why?”_

“It was… a test of endurance. I endured.” 

Kuryakin's mindset had been this: he could do it, but he could not be mistaken for possibly _wanting_ to do it. The latter was not so difficult a thing to manage; the man had been old, ugly, and shorter than Kuryakin was, even at seventeen. He'd smelled like salt-cured meat and wet newspaper. He was missing some teeth--a fact Kuryakin knew not because he'd been forced to kiss the man, too, but because afterwards, the man had smiled at him. After the fact, Kuryakin wondered if he was some drunk who was enlisted for this task, and paid only to never mention it. 

It had felt unnatural to let this man take him, but those were his orders. To do anything less would only heap still more shame upon his family.

Kuryakin remembered that two KGB trainees outright refused, and were promptly dismissed from the program. And another--paired with a handsome man--had been summarily dismissed despite completing his test. He was not spoken of again save for through the pervasive rumor that he'd become painfully erect during the act, thus betraying evidence of his enjoyment.

And that was how Kuryakin was able to succeed: his dispassion. His only defense was a dead-eyed commitment twinned not with reluctance, but readiness to take an order. 

His revelations seemed to bring more unease upon Solo as a recipient than Kuryakin, _the_ recipient. 

“I promise, I do not mean to lob insults while the sheets are still warm, but I would have thought, with your _condition_...?” If Solo had any instinct of self preservation, it was lost to him, now. He anticipated that Kuryakin would turn angry and combative, but it was just the opposite: Kuryakin devolved into a remarkable calm. He hardly seemed affected by his own explanation. 

“They took measures to ensure I would not enjoy it.” 

Solo couldn't help himself: he stole a look at the second fluffy white towel Kuryakin had thoughtfully brought along. Kuryakin caught him in the act and asked, his tone flat, “Have I ruined the mood?”

“You gave it your best shot,” Solo said dryly, and lifted himself unceremoniously from the crater his and Kuryakin's weight had put in his bed. He threw a leg high and far, like a dancer’s kick, and descended upon Kuryakin's resting form. His middle was warm and made for comfortable accommodations. 

Solo smirked and said, “Fortunately, if I was put off by the terrible realities of our line of work, I’d never get anything done.”

Privately, he was reeling--at the substance of the admission, certainly, but also the fact that he hadn't already _known._ Never mind having stolen Kuryakin’s private file, Solo prided himself on being able to intuit a great deal from even the most cagey of subjects. This unpleasantness should have been handed to him as easily as if it was printed on a business card.

Solo put the matter to the back of his mind, where he'd consider his options towards remedying things. He didn't know where the begin, but Kuryakin would notice if he dwelled on it now. Instead, Solo pressed his mouth to Kuryakin's throat, and spoke there until he felt goose flesh usher forth as a vindication of his efforts. He said only silly murmurings: “You smell exquisite. You showered twice today, didn’t you? I can tell. Nervous? Ah, you shouldn’t be.” 

"Why are you whispering?"

"I didn't want to spook you out of bed." 

Kuryakin sat up straighter, pressing his back to the headboard. He looked at Solo like he suspected continued trickery. “I can do it, you know.”

“Of course,” Solo replied coolly. “Perhaps I wasn't up to it tonight.” 

“Impossible,” Kuryakin huffed. “There is nothing you won't do to live outside yourself for even a minute.” 

Solo leaned over Kuryakin and made a grab for the extra pillow, which he folded in half and stuffed it between his shoulder blades. “Well, don't you just say the sweetest things.” 

Kuryakin snatched the pillow away and tossed it to the other side of the room. It was his belief that Solo needed to better learn reciprocity; Kuryakin had surrendered his truth, and he felt owed one of Solo’s. 

Solo, perpetually attuned to every given opportunity at his disposal, merely took Kuryakin’s unguarded pillow. He was leveled a withering look for his efforts.

“You hate to be alone with yourself. Why is that? Your company is… Not entirely displeasing.”

“With such kind assurances, how could I ever believe otherwise?” Solo closed his eyes, rendered himself in the image of peaceful. It fooled no one. 

He considered their predicament, though it was difficult to do so without wondering how things might have gone if he hadn’t read into Kuryakin’s behavior and changed course. Solo did not like to think that Kuryakin would have let him continue, but Kuryakin’s present combativeness told him otherwise. Things had not gone as planned and he’d failed a mission he’d set for himself. It was a competitor’s trait, and Kuryakin saw himself as having thrown the race.

Ultimately, Solo decided that the lack of progression didn’t negate progress itself. It was as Kuryakin had said to him in France: he knew more now than he’d read. 

“You realize it’s still early evening,” Solo said, and peeked an eye open.

Kuryakin glanced at his father’s watch. “Seven.”

Solo shrugged. “I could cook an actual meal. Chicken fricassee in a white wine sauce...” He was already composing the menu in his mind.

Pretending that didn’t sound entirely wonderful, Kuryakin looked away. “Okay.”

Solo kneaded the point of his index finger into Kuryakin’s side, smiling wide as he suggested, “We could catch _Monday Night at the Movies.”_

Kuryakin narrowed his eyes. “What is this.”

Solo clapped a hand on Kuryakin’s bare leg and grinned. “An American institution,” he said, and led the way--stark naked--into the living room. 

They spent the remainder of their evening in stolen bathrobes, with Solo cooking and Kuryakin clearing dishes from earlier. With plates balanced hot on their laps they tuned into NBC on Solo’s television and watched _Singin’ in the Rain._ Solo needled Kuryakin for some time afterwards to admit it was quite the film.* 

They dozed on the couch only to wake a few hours later, their faces cast in a blue light from the television set. It was just past midnight when they abandoned their robes and empty plates and left the couch for the bedroom. The lotions and ointments had been returned to their respective hiding places. Kuryakin did not know when Solo had tidied up, but neither man again commented on their evening’s thwarted plans. 

(Though, Kuryakin again conceded to enjoying the film, and asked when it would next be on television. Solo only said that he knew a guy, and could get Kuryakin a genuine film reel.) 

They slept late, entirely missing the lagging morning darkness that accompanied winter sure as a shadow. Under a pale light morning stood as a new reality, a place in which plans hadn't come to fruition, and yet there were not faced with the usual bloody wounds or soggy deaths to mop up and account for. It was a relief. 

Alternatively stretched and furled, their bodies were written into bed as the culmination of promises, some broken, others unsaid. 

"We leave for Rabat today," Kuryakin murmured, and caught Solo looking bemused because he’d genuinely forgotten. 

But the facts came back to him--least of all that Gaby had gone ahead of them three days ago and already established contact with their mark. She was playing the runaway heiress wife of Solo’s, fresh on the scene but already over it. 

“Another week spent mirroring my true profession,” Solo bemoaned. “Eccentric millionaire with my own personal assistant and bodyguard.”

“Technically, I am Gaby’s personal assistant and bodyguard.”

“Technically, Gaby and my marriage is on the rocks,” Solo said. “It’s really a question of who gets you in the divorce proceedings.”

“Gaby will take you for every cent.” Of that, Kuryakin had no doubt. 

“I’d gladly surrender my imaginary fortune,” Solo teased, and set his hand on an expedition under the sheets for what he’d claim in lieu of such riches. He gripped Kuryakin's thigh--a thing he was, admittedly, fascinated by. Cold hands were just the start: Kuryakin's feet never warmed and neither did his torso and backside. But his thighs ran radiator-hot. 

And it struck Solo that--perhaps--he’d conceded things too quickly last night. The thought presented itself in so neat and simple a package, Solo was aghast he'd ever managed to overlook it. 

“Suppose we should get up,” he sighed, and as if on cue Kuryakin began untangling himself from sheets and limbs and the odd, invasive hand. “I quite enjoyed our evening. But, as a side note--I’d like for you to fuck me.”

Kuryakin’s eyes went wide. “...We have a flight to catch.”

Solo grinned. “Later, then. In Rabat.”

“Cowboy…” 

“I'll teach you how,” Solo promised, his tone triumphant and sure. “I'll enjoy it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I had to do some research for this, but yes! NBC had _NBC Monday Night at the Movies,_ which aired movies from 7:30pm-9:30pm EST. And in January of 1964, they showed _Singin’ in the Rain._


	7. Chapter 7

They arrived midday in Rabat, and Solo drew on his squared sunglasses the moment they exited the airport. The hard lines set off the natural bow of his lips, which somehow achieved the impossible: making his face more expressive while covering a third of it up. 

Kuryakin had worn his own aviators for the duration of the flight. 

It was fever-hot, even with the ocean lapping up against the city. Everywhere they went they were smiled at and told by drivers and attendants in practice-perfect English that it was unusually warm, wasn’t it? And then, on occasion, they’d be served a sympathetic look. 

Kuryakin dutifully ignored the idle chatter while Solo took the time to talk back. 

Kuryakin believed that, to some extent, Solo knew he wasn’t much of a spy. He underestimated his foes at every turn--it’s what seemed to get him drugged and half-drowned and beaten on a regular basis. He’d been captured a number of times, promised death. It was a secret he once let slip to Kuryakin after it happened, yet again, and he had two sprained wrists and terrible back pain to show for it.

And though he’d asked the question-- _“How has someone not killed you already?”_ \--Kuryakin wasn’t expecting a genuine answer.

It wasn’t a flattering explanation, and Solo said as much in his preface to it. Simply put, he didn’t _know_ anything. He didn’t have a vision of the CIA outside his own experience and once his captors learned that, they discarded him. Sometimes that meant leaving him for dead, which was really only ever a test of Solo’s endless cunning. 

_Once,_ Solo had mused, he’d even been let him out the front door of a massive Italian villa after a week being starved and subjected to mock executions in a basement torture chamber. An elderly woman living at the estate even made him a sandwich before he left. 

But what he lacked in formal training he made up for with everything else at his disposal: a quick tongue for languages, his good looks, an appearance of wealth, and his ever-present confidence--as much a part of him as his very skin. He played his parts so well because they were little more than an exaggeration of himself, a mirror turned at an angle so as not to produce a monster, but just some sliver of a real man. 

He did not so much as occupy identities as he discovered the likes of Jack Devaney, Frances James, Henry Carr, and--today’s special--Richard Young. They existed like pockmarks along a spectrum of Solo’s behavior, sometimes scoring high among his better traits (a devious charm and crushing friendliness), other times languishing in his less appealing fare (a deeply misplaced confidence that could double in a pinch for outright arrogance). 

He met these men and sometimes didn’t like what he saw in them. 

Case in point: Richard Young wore a navy fedora, in part to guard against the sun, but mostly the gaudy style was meant to attract attention. He liked it for seeming business-like, even if it had fallen out of style in the past decade. Richard knew he looked good in it, and for that reason alone he’d sooner go to his grave wearing the fashion than live a day without it set across his brow. 

It clashed terribly with his suits--he'd packed a selection of cool blues and greys, and short-sleeve polos to match--and the navy had warm tones of brown and it was just _wrong,_ all wrong.

They arrived at the hotel as planned: Kuryakin laden under the weight of Solo’s luggage, freeing up Solo to wage a faux confrontation with Gaby in the lobby where she’d arranged to meet one of their marks for a lunch date. The shouting match culminated in concerned looks from the hotel staff, and Gaby’s profuse apologies to her new friend. Embarrassed and hurt, she stormed out of the building. 

Solo saved a final bit of showmanship for Kuryakin, shoving him hard in the shoulder so that he very nearly lost his balance and dropped his employer’s belongings. The sharp look of protest Kuryakin gave Solo was only tempered by his remembering his place.

“Do your goddamn job and keep an eye on her!” Solo snapped, his last taunt. But Kuryakin saw the slight curl of Solo’s mouth, the teasing little smile he had to work to hold back. It wasn’t so well-hidden as Solo seemed to think. 

He could wear anger like a hat but--much like the fedora--it did not suit him. 

Though Kuryakin did not stick around to watch, he was certain Solo went about rebuilding himself, charming the crowd, and endearing them to his point of view. That young, wild wife of his had taken off and gone across an ocean with his money. He tipped handsomely for someone to come and collect his scattered bags, even spoke a little Arabic, learned en-route to his destination. 

Anyone would have eaten it up, gorged themselves on this handsome man and his quick turn from enraged to softened and sweet--anyone and _everyone,_ save for the woman for whom this entire production was orchestrated: Vicki Munro, wife of their late Ambassador, a man whose grim death had been wholly unexpected. A man who, in life, had secretly conducted himself as an U.N.C.L.E operative. 

She’d kept his name, his money, and various properties around the world. When she saw Solo’s performance, it was a reflection of her husband and his kind. And to Ms. Munro, Gaby--smart, independently wealthy heiress, and entirely too sharp a thing for this buffoon--was one of _her_ kind. 

-

The city was a thing of beauty trimmed in blue. The abundance of sun-bleached stone made even the streets look pristine and bright, a pleasant place to wander. Gaby and Kuryakin did so for some time.

They walked loosely arm-in-arm, though she never once fell into him, leaned closer to his form, or was in any way overly-affectionate. He was her bodyguard, her protector and employee. In certain lights, he was a shadow of her husband’s presence. In this respect she hardly looked at him. Likewise, he stood erect in this task, never so much as blinking out of turn.

He dutifully called Gaby “Madam,” a term that did not suit her youth but answered for her marriage, and was generally adept at showing deference to her wishes. He was well-trained, and it was this--and not his acting ability--that shown through.

They made quite the sight for the old men in town, who drank tea and held court along the backs of restaurants and sides of souks. Gaby didn't mind them looking--Kuryakin was likelier still a stranger sight than a rich, well-dressed foreigner--but she kept her eyes out for those few faces she needed turned her way: the women in Ms. Munro's bizarre little club. Recent widows, all of them. Gaby was meant to join as a prospective new member. 

It was a careful thing that would take time and patience, and Gaby realized the distinct possibility of only laying the groundwork now, and returning later claiming the deed was done. Privately, she'd read up on Solo and Kuryakin's recent mission in Lebanon, but only found so much of it useful for her purposes.

Women, she decided, were far more scrutinizing than men. Men sought to run rampant in their attempts to capitalize on the achievements or wealth of one another; women considered their own hand, first. They knew to safeguard what they had and not risk it all on a man’s word. 

Because what was his word when he'd broken his vow? 

Gaby had to build trust and make quiet assurances before she ever broached the subject. Even the disdain she showed for her husband had to be kept in check. It was storytelling: her and Solo’s embattled marriage must be on full display, but it was Gaby's task to downplay the turbulence at every turn. 

It was a thing she believed ardently she'd never stand for; if someone was to once mistreat her, they'd next try with a mouthful of broken teeth. But part of its doing was well-worth it. She did not storm to her room and throw herself upon the bed to sulk in solitude; she went out on the town, dressed in high fashions and treated every stop at a shop or cafe like a booked appearance. Where her husband raved, she conquered. 

For posterity’s sake, Gaby took Kuryakin along to all the grand sites. Ahead of grand mosques and the skeletal remains of ancient cities, she instructed him to take photos of her or, in lieu of that, simply “remember this for me, won't you?” He kept a straight face through her antics, deciding that their respective roles weren't the greatest stretch for either of them. She liked to play, _was inherently playful,_ and believed with all her being that her partners could stand to benefit from a similar approach, even if just on occasion.

(And, _on occasion,_ Gaby had taken to throwing her purse his way, only to demand it back shortly after, claiming it completed her outfit.) 

“Does it ever concern you,” he asked in the privacy afforded to them by the lush green retreat of the Andalusian Gardens, “That you are particularly good at this?”

“Lying to people?” she pronounced with a smile, then drew her sunglasses high atop her head. “Never.”

She proceeded to draw her dark hair into a messy ponytail, even without removing her sunglasses. It was a thing Kuryakin had often made a point of watching her do in an attempt to understand how she never seemed to get it right. She tugged too hard, he decided, like she thought the hair would put up resistance. 

Gaby caught him staring. “Does it concern you?”

For a moment, Kuryakin thought she meant the poorly orchestrated hairdo. 

As for her lying, though, and her talent for it… Kuryakin caved. 

“Once,” he allowed. 

She sat on a bench and waited for Kuryakin to join her. He had to duck below a pink orchid--great and sweeping as his arm--to do so. It was downright cool in the gardens, wherein the plants were tall and made a natural canopy along wood grating. Vines climbed high and reached well above all else, though everything from the smallest blade of grass breaking through the slick stonework paths stood tall, hungry for sunlight.

Gaby slipped out of her shoes and cooled her feet on a duck design spelled out in red-colored pebbles. The whole path carried similar decorations: geometric patterns, animals and depictions of fish to play against all the plantlife. Her manicured toes, Kuryakin noticed, matched her fingernails. It was not a thing Gaby otherwise concerned herself with, and it reminded him to be wary; she was . 

“It's strange,” she mused, “To think Solo is the only one ever telling the truth.”

“What you mean,” Kuryakin shot back. Solo was keeping _hordes_ of secrets, some of Kuryakin's among them.

“Aha!” Gaby exclaimed, “You've told him something you won't tell me!” She socked him in the arm. “I knew it.”

“There is nothing. You are mistaken.” Any gunfight or battle to the death would show Kuryakin as a man with nerves of steel. But this--Gaby creeping towards his most deeply-hidden truth--inspired in him something the barrel of a gun or a knife to his throat never could: fear.

He stood too quickly, and when the heavy orchid draped over his shoulder he made a grab for it, snapping its stem like he would the arm of an intruder upon his person. He threw it to the ground and felt a stab of remorse as the delicate petals broke away and scattered. “Come. Is time we go.”

Gaby was not swayed by any show of force against a plant. 

She kicked up a leg and crossed it leisurely over the other. “Want to confer with Solo right away, do you?”

 _“Gaby.”_

His tone was the harshest he'd ever taken with her. Hard and swift, issued with an impatience so real Gaby would have thought he’d put his hands on her. It stunned them both. 

Neither spoke another word, and Gaby did not move an inch. She stared at Kuryakin until he surrendered, unclenched his fists, and returned to the bench. He sat clear over on the opposite edge. 

“Let me guess,” she said, her voice cool where Kuryakin’s had been red-hot, “If there were anything-- _which there isn't_ \--it's not for me to know. For some stupid reason or another, I'm sure--my safety, or some such nonsense.”

Kuryakin stared at the orchid he’d unintentionally butchered. His vision blurred and he saw red: the petals, the stem, the earth, the air. He felt sick, and the words that came next spilled from a tongue sweat-slick and over-warm. “Not your safety. Mine.” 

Gaby grasped his fingers--an attempt like a child might make, accepting only what she could firmly, fully hold and not caring to try for what was proper. Her grip was unrelenting; she would not stop until she’d turned his cold digits warm. “I can protect you.”

 _You wouldn't want to,_ Kuryakin thought miserably. _If you knew._

The flowering plants of the garden hid any scent of Kuryakin’s sudden perspiration, but they were silent, too, so nothing stood to overpower the heavy thudding of his heart. When he still did not speak, Gaby took a different approach: “But you trust Solo with this secret?”

She was getting too close, Kuryakin knew. And he was practically leading her there. 

“I have to,” he said stiffly. 

“Well,” Gaby gave his hand one last squeeze before loosening her grip. “I suppose it’s a start.”

She slipped back into her shoes and stood, turned, faced him. Every move was guided by a grace and ease Kuryakin could not comprehend. How did she do it? How did she accept being presented with bold-faced lies and not come apart? How did she still care for him?

She smoothed her hands down her skirt, fixing the pleats. “Shall we have lunch?” 

-

They dined in the shade of an outdoor cafe, then returned to their hotel room for an evening of mundane taskwork: watching for movement on the tracking device Gaby had planted on Ms. Munro during their first meeting.

“Did you not turn it on?” Kuryakin pressed. He was sat on the end of her bed, frowning, and fiddling with his trusty case. It would appear the device had followed Ms. Munro back to her villa, but had since remained stationary. 

“She has more than one bag,” Gaby reminded him. She'd thrown herself into the feather-soft spread of pillows, sandwiched herself between them, and angled her body down the length of the bed. Shoes abandoned at the door, she walked her bare feet up Kuryakin's back. “And you’re out of your mind if you think there’s anything she’ll wear twice in so short a time.”

Kuryakin frowned and continued to stare at the unmoving dot on the green-gray screen, as if he believed he could will it to move. “What did she smell like.”

“Excuse me?” Gaby was idly rehearsing the steps for a waltz, now. 

“Her perfume.”

“Chanel, same as mine.” Kuryakin turned around and Gaby lost her footing. “I did my research, my Russian friend.” 

Kuryakin left the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Gaby, used to this behavior, set about alternatively reading a novel and glancing at the unmoving tracking device. She was only relieved from consuming boredom with the arrival of Solo, who smelt like a brewery but did not so much as teeter in his steps. 

“Hello, darling wife.” Rather than swoop in for a character-driven kiss, Solo clapped his hand on Gaby's shoulder. She was promptly reminded of their conversation some months ago about being _gentlemanly._ He looked around their grand hotel room and found their shared Russian giant conspicuously missing. “Where’s Peril?”

Gaby did not so much as blink. “Where do you think?”

Solo shook his head. “Always with the bathrooms.”

Kissed with hints of the Moroccan sun across his brow, Solo had spent his day making himself known around Rabat’s various American institutions--the embassy, bars frequented by expats, and the like. He ran the risk of being noticed by another clandestine agent, but found himself in luck. He encountered nothing but a sea of open white faces, eager to welcome one of their own.

In the context of their mission, however, he made himself a target. 

Loud, a drunk, loose with money and fast with women--he was a perfect rendering of the dead American ambassador whose death they’d been sent to investigate. Or, rather, the whispers of said death they were sent to confirm.

The wife did it, some said. And she had help. 

Solo would have preferred a politically-motivated assassination, truth be told. He’d seen enough of them to have developed an eye for the doers: Arabs were neat and intimate, often choosing strangulation or poisoning; Americans did the deed in public and created mass chaos and confusion to hide their tracks; Russians were clean in their shooting, but not so considerate as to not leave a bloody mess. 

But theirs was a case of apparent suicide. A hanging, seemingly unattended or guided by nefarious purposes. Solo did not have the luxury of refusing his assignments with the CIA; U.N.C.L.E remained untested, if only for a hard-won lesson: if the case looked like a joke, take it for a vacation. Already, Solo had been able to get away with heavy day-drinking.

They had no immediate _in_ with Ms. Munro, other than her budding friendship with Gaby and--possibly--whatever Kuryakin was up to. 

Solo went to the bathroom and glanced at the door’s base, searching for the telltale red glow of Kuryakin's preferred makeshift photography development studio. There was none, just the shadow of feet cut into dull yellow light. He knocked twice and was only answered with a grunt. 

“Quick question, Peril. Just. _Why?”_

And as if on command, Kuryakin revealed himself. He emerged from the bathroom with two neat little pouches, both a netted white material tied with a silken string. They look positively delicate laid out in the palms of his massive hands. 

Curious, Gaby left the bed and joined her partners. Kuryakin presented one of the pouches, as if for examination, except she had no earthly idea what she was meant to be looking at. Mirroring Kuryakin's own care with the items, she opened the one he passed her, and retrieved from the bag a perfectly sculpted little cube of a foggy white color. Bits of green and purple--lavender, Gaby smelled it distinctly--hovered, suspended in the block’s silky-soft interior. 

“It’s a soap.”

“Is dual tracking and listening device,” Kuryakin corrected.

“In a soap,” Gaby pressed, then gave it a sniff. “Is that my Chanel perfume?”

Solo took the other soap off Kuryakin’s hands. He inspected it, bemused. “You made soap?”

To Gaby, Kuryakin explained his plan: “Is for in your bag. You show it off, she make compliment, and, oh, what luck, you have extra. Either she like it, good, or you gush, make big deal. She use it because she pity you. Have it on her at all times.”

He looked so intent in his description, so assured that his simple notion of playing on pleasantries would work, that Gaby was completely drawn in. Then, she burst out with a laugh. “That’s--I love it!” 

Even Solo had to admit: “It’s… clever.” 

“I want one,” Gaby pronounced, but eyed Kuryakin warily. “Without the tracker.”

Solo turned the thing over in his hands, and inspected the exact edges. It undoubtedly took patience, but something else, too--skill. “Where--?”

“My mother made them. Lavender, orange blossom.” Kuryakin held his tongue, then, and did not offer further detail: that she’d done this even after they became destitute and she sold her belongings, their home, and her body. Kuryakin remembered watching her piece together the little soaps; she was precise in how they smelled. Nothing like overwhelming perfume or purposeful potpourri, meant to overwhelm an awful odor. They went into coat pockets or were hidden inside their car before they'd sold it. These were the single treats she allowed herself, something to always remind her of better, more beautiful times.

It gave Kuryakin a moment’s pause, then, to contemplate what he’d done. Did this not soil her memory? To use her talents in the pursuit of a line of work that had stolen away her son? Was it not a move so exacting in its irony that it may have well been deliberate?

“It’s lovely,” Solo said, his firm voice interrupting Kuryakin's growing bout of unease. He quelled his sudden, heart-thumping desire to take Kuryakin’s hand in his own and further reassure him of that fact. “But will it work?”

The challenge snapped Kuryakin back into place. 

“Of course it will work,” he said smartly, and collected his devices. “Just you wait and see, Cowboy.”

-

It took three days of waiting because, unbeknownst to them, Ms. Munro had taken a weekend trip to a beach resort in El Jadida. 

Gaby’s next chance came in the hotel lobby, a meeting orchestrated by Ms. Munro herself for the purpose of inviting Gaby to ladies lunch. Gaby let out a shriek of excitement Kuryakin didn’t doubt was at least somewhat genuine; it had been a long three days for Gaby especially, having spent them entirely in either his company or Solo’s. 

And in accepting the offer, Gaby waved Kuryakin off immediately. 

“Stand over there, please. You're crowding me.” 

Dutifully, Kuryakin retreated across the room, and stood staring at Gaby and Ms. Munro. He watched as Gaby put on a show of going through her bag, then producing the soap-hugged tracking device, which Ms. Munro found charming. Gaby hardly had to push to get her to accept one. 

When they left the lounge and started for the door, however, Kuryakin materialized at her side.

“Madam.”

Gaby turned on her heel and was not cowed by Kuryakin’s looming presence. “My friend Ms. Munro has kindly extended an invitation to a ladies lunch this afternoon. I'll not be needing your services for the rest of the day.”

“Madam,” Kuryakin pressed, his halting tone speaking for the unmentioned party who held leveraged more weight in Gaby’s choices than she did. 

Gaby shelved her hands on her hips and tipped her chin upwards. “Why don't you go protect my husband for a while? Surely half the prostitutes he keeps company with are slathered in venereal disease. He could use the double coverage.”

And Kuryakin would have argued himself, but it was essential to their covers that Gaby prove to be as ferocious a being as she truly was. Ms. Munro and her ilk had to see in Gaby a worthy force to bring into their fold. 

Kuryakin took a step back, lowered his head. 

“Of course, Madam. My apologies, Madam.”

He followed them, of course. He kept a distance between Ms. Munro’s chauffeured car and his own loaner from the hotel, and did not venture so close to the Munro villa as to be seen. For a time, Kuryakin listened on the planted device, but when Gaby twice dropped the code word assuring of her safety--cumbersome!--he took the hint and left her alone to her task.

And then the day was his to do with as he pleased. It was a rare occurrence in its own right, but rarer still that Kuryakin knew precisely what he meant to do. 

-

Solo was sat comfortably on the long, plush couch when Kuryakin returned to their room. That Kuryakin locked the door behind him--hardly an unusual move--and then _tested it_ made Solo smile. Subtlety would never be one of Kuryakin's strong suits, but Solo decided to be generous and give him this one.

“You're back early,” Solo observed from over the top of his newspaper. 

“The ladies’ lunch was exclusively for ladies.” 

From the gossip Solo had taken in, he'd determined they were after an inexplicably successful international gang of black widows. Between the five of them, there were nearly twice as many dead men, and all those fortunes left to share.

“Mhm. Gaby told you to leave?”

Kuryakin was halfway across the room, now, inspecting the latches on the balcony doors. “I do not think harm will find her in a cucumber sandwich.” 

“Have you ever had a soggy one? Death would be kinder.”

“Do you prefer that I go, guard Gaby from a gourd?”

Solo smiled; Kuryakin didn’t always appreciate his teasing. “Nothing would devastate me more.”

He seemed even more perturbed by Solo’s penchant for sly compliments, often delivered in the company of others. What Kuryakin preferred--indeed, what clenched his heart and blurred his vision--were the small, noncommittal things said when they congressed. The _ah’_ s and _mm’_ s, and always, _always_ the long breath Solo would draw in through his nose, hold, and release as a hurt little sigh. He saved those for when Kuryakin’s nerves got the better of him, and he postponed their activities for a safer date. 

Kuryakin shed his suit jacket and laid it over a wingback chair, then rounded the living area and came to stand behind Solo, who'd claimed most of the couch and had his feet up on the coffee table. Unmoving, Kuryakin stared over his shoulder. 

“You can't read that,” he said of the Arabic-language newspaper head loosely in Solo’s grip. 

Solo glanced upwards and smirked. “Who's going to stop me?”

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. _“I_ know more Arabic than you do,” he said, aptly phrasing it like the shared insult it was. So far, he'd only caught the odd comment on Gaby's beauty and his size while puttering around the markets with her. Only once had he determined the line to be in detriment-- _does she climb him like a camel?_ \--and confronted the speaker. 

“Oh, without question,” Solo conceded, his tone touch too cool. It hinted at an ulterior motive, something Kuryakin once only guessed at in the field, but had since learned to hear like a secret language. “But I know what I'm looking for.”

“Something to do with mission?” Kuryakin pressed, suddenly very interested. “Are the women discovered? Is there a plot against them? Why here?” His gaze followed Solo’s and where the man had been reading, Kuryakin tapped the page aggressively. “What does it say?”

Solo clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth, feigning deep, introspective thought. “It says _antique table_ , which just won't do. I'm looking for light fixtures.” 

That Solo had practically _chirped_ at him set Kuryakin on edge. “Gaby is risking her life for this mission. But, no, my condolences. You are _bored.”_

Solo smiled; though Kuryakin did not share the sentiment, Solo appreciated his flair for the dramatic. 

“Gaby isn't risking so much as a fingernail,” Solo countered. “These are black widows, if you'll recall. They'd sooner make Gaby their queen than hurt her.” He lazily turned a page of his newspaper, further sweeping a number of items listed for sale or trade. _“Me,_ on the other hand,” he tapped his socked foot on the table, and indicated the fedora he'd placed there, crown down. “Would you look at this hat? I'm basically pleading for death.”

Kuryakin folded his arms; he remained speculative of Solo’s seeming trust that this mission was nothing but harmless fun. Women killing their abusive husbands was one thing--doing it several times over, retaining their wealth and freedom, and thinking towards bigger gains was entirely another. Their behavior spoke of a devious intelligence and minds for logistics and strategy. Maybe there'd be no convincing Gaby towards the deed, but Kuryakin did not so easily dismiss anyone's capability for killing Solo. In the past week, he'd made himself quite the target.

Kuryakin said none of this aloud. Rather, he made a single, pointed observation of what Solo had thought to do, if not afford the case its warranted attention or take a care to safeguard his own life: “So you go shopping.”

Solo hummed agreement. “Something like those lanterns in the lobby, but for the kitchen. What do you think?”

Kuryakin stiffened. Of course Solo had gone and taken his insult for interest in Solo’s idle task. He took a seat opposite his partner, shrugging as he went. 

“Is your kitchen.”

“Nothing too low-hanging,” Solo mused aloud. “You'll run right into it.”

“Do not,” Kuryakin could feel heat in his cheeks and neck, and a panic in his belly. He felt this way when Solo said teasing things in a not-so-teasing tone. He spread his hands open over his thighs, then slid them down to rest on his knees. “Concern me--do not _consider_ me.”

“Don't consider the giant when picking out light fixtures,” Solo said, parsing reason from Kuryakin's mumblings. He snapped his paper and again went about looking through the listings. “Makes perfect sense.”

He supposed he could hunt through the bazaars later in search of what he wanted. Though--he really did quite like the light fixtures in the lobby. Like anything else in this life, they were on the proverbial menu. 

_Yes,_ Solo thought to himself, _I’ll have those._

He folded up his paper and lowered his feet from the table to the floor, then set his sights on Kuryakin. As in Lebanon, he'd traded his heavy turtlenecks for lightweight cotton and linen shirts. The jacket was unavoidable; he had to look his best in Gaby's company. His blue-black shirt was loosely stitched, enough so that Solo would see the lightness of Kuryakin's skin beneath it. 

“Get whatever you want,” Kuryakin huffed. He acted as though Solo’s mere inclusion of him in his thoughts was unnecessary, if not wholly uncalled for--never mind how often they'd shared a bed, shared their bodies. “Who knows how long I will be around to appreciate them.”

It was--Solo thought--curious. And not a sentiment he shared. 

Perhaps in deference to the idea itself, they never spoke of the time they afforded themselves together. Solo referenced his sentence on occasion, and once Kuryakin made mention of his age, but neither man looked to a future--imagined or otherwise. Well before their meeting, that word had been ripped from their respective lexicons. 

Words had altogether never been able to reach beyond what occurred between them in a single room. 

So the phrase gave Solo pause, made him uneasy in a manner he could not parse or reason away, because the very idea had stemmed from Kuryakin and not himself. By that measure alone, it was devoid of rationality. 

“Implausible as it seems,” Solo drawled, “Do you know something I don't, Peril?”

“I know--” Kuryakin caught himself, realizing Solo’s tone as one for joking. He sorted himself and answered only, “This work. The risks.”

Solo flashed him a devious smile, and brought a hand to his heart. “Only death could wrench you from my side, then? That's sweet.”

Kuryakin frowned. “I did not say--”

“I think I'll have it cross-stitched onto a pillow.”

“Spell it out with your light fixtures for all I care. Is not what I said.” 

Solo looked entirely too pleased with himself as he stared Kuryakin down. His partner could take any number of hits--he was resilient, even, to a fault, stomaching what he did, standing when he should have kneeled, dismissing physical and mental blows as quickly as he sustained them. But he had a thin skin, and took what he believed to be insults to his character to heart. So Solo backed off. 

“But you're not really worried for Gaby,” he wagered.

“Aren't I,” Kuryakin said. 

“No,” Solo said, and then took his time in inspecting his shiny silver cuff links, straightening his tie and seeing that it fit nicely down the split of his vest. Kuryakin fought a compulsion to stay Solo’s hand and remind him that he looked perfect, always. “In fact, I'd hazard a guess that you're wondering why it is I've had you in my company for five whole minutes and not presented myself like a baboon.” 

Kuryakin's hands withdrew from his knees, retreated to his thighs as if in quiet anticipation. “It came to mind.”

Solo tried to smile, but found that he couldn't. His heart wasn't in it--it was back in New York, dropped somewhere stories below his apartment. He opened his mouth, closed it. He had a thousand lines on hand, every little white lie he knew to work without fail. Legs parted slightly, heart pounding, Kuryakin would have accepted them all. 

Solo knew he had that effect on people. Even if they knew better, or claimed to--there wasn't anything for it. And for every careful step, every ardent denial, Kuryakin was as lost to Solo as hundreds before him. All had been drawn by Solo’s charm, wit, and taste for the game. He never said no. 

“Perhaps we are rushing things.”

The room suddenly felt as concealed as Solo’s apartment, insular and detached from the world in which they trespassed under slim guises and led half-lives. Kuryakin felt as though he could reach out both arms and have the place covered. He felt like he could pick any drawer or cupboard at random, and know what he'd find. 

For that reason alone, it upset Kuryakin tremendously to discover himself feeling uneasy here. 

“What you mean,” Kuryakin said, his voice hovering just above a whisper. He squared his shoulders as if to ready himself for a physical blow, something to accompany Solo’s first and only refusal. 

Solo held open his hands, miming patience. He seemed apprehensive of Kuryakin’s rapidly cooling demeanor, but he did not take back or dull his sentiment. “Only what I said.”

Kuryakin's index finger tapped once on his thigh, then steadied. He bit his lower lip, challenging the feelings of resentment and betrayal that had found their way into his heart. _“You_ wanted--”

“I know what I want,” Solo cut in. “And I know what _you_ want. To prove something to me of which I already have no doubt.”

“And what is that.” 

“Your affection,” Solo answered, his voice deliberately softened and devoid of its usual edge. His intention was to put Kuryakin at ease, but the man was too far gone. 

Kuryakin's face looked warm, and Solo knew if he reached out he could confirm that fact for himself. 

“If you would have let me--”

“I can't quite believe that you would have let _me._ ” 

Solo spoke of an outright shame--his own, not Kuryakin’s. And again, Kuryakin wanted to take him hard by each arm, brace him close, and tell him until he believed: _Solo, you are perfect._

Instead, he grimaced, and tried in vain to assuage Solo’s concerns--a difficult thing to do when he did not grant them merit. “Is not so precious a thing.”

“Isn't it?” Solo asked. It was unnerving to concentrate on and recognize such a heavy reality in a thing that had not even occurred. Kuryakin was a pragmatic sort; he wouldn't see the danger for himself. He would, Solo knew, anticipate those threats yet to come. 

He said, “Won't I be?”

Kuryakin snapped to attention, then retreated, red chasing after his features. He ducked his head slightly, blushing. “You, _yes,_ ” he spoke as if there was no conceivable alternative to the question. “Of course. And I will… I will take care.” 

It was a sworn agreement, the kind Kuryakin was quick to make and from which he never relented. It resonated warm in Solo’s chest, something like pleasure but closer still to ache. He was the whole of Kuryakin's world, an occupant in every station--past, present, imaginary. Solo realized he'd long missed this feeling, and it stood to reason he had not known it since his time in the Army. His practiced thievery made life exciting, expanded it across oceans. There were men and women, yes, loved in the time afforded to them, but despite the hungry consummation of the body, the relationships themselves had been chaste. Such was the nature of his life. 

Then, the trend continued. His CIA handlers saw fit to destroy his remaining relationships with rumors of death or treachery for the purpose of wholly isolating him. For a decade, it worked like gangbusters; there were waitresses and hotel staff, unsuspecting targets and dazzled accomplices. There were no partners. 

_I work better alone,_ he'd told Kuryakin on their first mission. It was the CIA’s line, not his own.

Kuryakin quickly became uncomfortable at the sight of Solo sitting there, relaxed, smiling at him. It was too great a departure from his cool dismissal. “What you want, then.” He sat entirely too still, like he believed himself to be perpetually fidgeting. “To talk?”

Solo nodded his head, impressed. “We could certainly try that.”

There had been a time where words were all they had. Solo used them as any other means to get closer, to draw from Kuryakin his secrets, beliefs, and wounded admissions. Kuryakin, for his part, knew that half of what spilled from Solo’s lips were lies, carefully tended, but no less imagined. He spoke of evenings at home, the next _Monday Night at the Movies,_ a new club he'd like very much like to visit--with the appropriate company, of course. Lies, Kuryakin thought, until proven otherwise.

Then, they were beautiful. 

Kuryakin had never mastered such a technique; he was more prone to delving out unpleasant truths. To wit: “You could be brilliant spy, but you are unprincipled.”

“Mhm. And how is that working out for you, comrade?” Solo grinned mischievously, but Kuryakin did not share his amusement. Solo relented, saying, “Perhaps talking is a skosh advanced.”

“Talking is difficult,” Kuryakin agreed. “You are always saying stupid thing.” 

Solo’s gaze drifted back to his newspaper--a ruse, but Kuryakin bought into it easily. 

“I miss you,” Kuryakin tried again. “Inexplicably.”

 _Not so hard after all,_ Solo mused. 

“Is difficult,” Kuryakin continued, unprompted, “Not to take your hand when I want it in mine. Not to shut you up the way I'd like.”

His voice had gone soft and dream-like, and Solo was brought back to their first true exchange in his apartment. They'd traded words and challenges, then shared something well beyond Solo’s expectations. Even now, he could not seem to name it.

Again and again, shadows of that moment found them: quiet exchanges, the likes of which Solo had never previously known to be so divine; hands and mouths touching and naming every part of their distinctly male forms; silence, too, when it was most necessary. 

_Oh dear,_ he thought, immensely pleased with himself. _I've certainly started something._

“Rushing,” Kuryakin repeated, and worked the word between his mouth and his heart. “Is… because I only know it the other way?”

“Ah,” Solo said with a start. He understood now that Kuryakin saw his commentary as a reflection of his expectations for the task. That it would be unpleasant, as in Kuryakin's experience, because he'd not learned otherwise. The notion alone set Solo’s teeth on edge, and “No, it's not that. Certainly… It will be a learning experience for us both. An expedition, really.”

But Solo thought--he _knew_ \--now wasn't the time. He'd even begun to think they'd never venture so far with one another, and chided himself for ever believing otherwise. Kuryakin's lack of questions, his uncharacteristically tight-lipped deference to Solo the moment the act seemed upon him was evidence enough. Solo had seen it, recognized the inherent _wrongness_ of the situation even as Kuryakin remained pliant and agreeable, yes--but it had still been his choice.

In an unexpected turn of events, Solo realized the hang-ups were all his own.

“In New York,” Kuryakin said--an offer, when before it was a demand so long as the deed pertained to him.

It surprised Solo--charmed him, even. “Yes,” he said, and then, “I’d appreciate that.” 

He stood, left his seat to investigate the afternoon spread of fruits and cheeses brought by the hotel staff just prior to Kuryakin’s return. “For the record, you have tried to smother the life out of me a number of times. I think I know what I’m up against.”

Kuryakin chanced a sly smile now that Solo’s back was turned, not realizing Solo was doing the same. “Noted.”

Under a polished silver lid, Solo inspected the spread: a whole pomegranate was split open like a broken heart, seeds drawn into a small dish; fruits whose name and origin he could not place sat humble and whole; various cheese samples were lined along a narrow wooden board. 

Kuryakin came to join him, but only surveyed Solo. He asked how many times Solo had been poisoned in their line of work.

“More often than I rare to admit,” Solo answered, and sampled a crumble of blue cheese spread atop a slice of bright green pear. “Why do you ask?”

“You should stop eating things people bring you.” Kuryakin looked pointedly at the platter.

“You can't expect me to forage for myself, Peril.” He smirked, then set upon a new selection. “Let's try… this,” and offered Kuryakin a sweet-smelling slice of fruit.

“What is it?”

“I haven't the foggiest.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Kuryakin accepted the fruit. He chewed, swallowed, and in the moment he was prepared to voice his verdict, Solo’s mouth was on his. 

They proceeded, trading tastes and smirks and playful challenges, Kuryakin matching Solo move-for-move.

The pomegranate’s beads of exquisite tartness gave way, through further consumption, to unrefined sweetness. They burst over Solo’s tongue as he threw a few back. He preferred them to the blackened little figs, at once a delicacy and a danger. To spare his mouth the heated burns, he sampled only a slice. The fig’s interior was a different kind of sweet, a silky taste of its pale flesh coupled with the sharp draw of its seeds. 

Kuryakin liked the heat. 

Their mouths moved together, sweet and warm, their tongues slick and tangy. When Solo kissed him, each flick of the tongue, each nip, was driven by purpose. He’d started things innocently enough with the fruits and cheeses, but he meant to go beneath those flavors. He did not break for air until he found Kuryakin and the steady warmth that radiated from his core. 

It was Kuryakin who led their efforts towards the bedroom. Solo took his time to be playful, to touch and toy with Kuryakin until he felt him relent, and draw back into the moment. They reclined comfortably on the bed, their movements as languid and pleasure-seeking as they’d been previous, with fingers to mouths and back again.

“On the job, even,” Solo said into the warmth of Kuryakin's throat, “Would have thought you’d have your doubts about complicating our working relationship.”

“I am a professional,” Kuryakin said cooly. “I will always remain so.” The words rumbled in his chest and Solo felt that peculiar part of him--his voice--like another hand in his hair. Peevishly, Kuryakin added, “If you choose otherwise, that is to your detriment.”

Solo grinned. A threat. _Of course._

“And you're good for pillow talk, too. What luck.” 

Solo could smell the ocean from inside their room, feel the grit of the sea air as it crept through cracks in the balcony doors. He could taste it, even, on Kuryakin’s skin--all its vastness, its danger, its depths. Solo had crossed the Atlantic by plane, completely divorced from its power. But this much he would travess: his partner. 

Kuryakin’s breathing regulated and slowed. His hands, once roaming over Solo’s body, settled pleasingly on his waist. 

“Mm--wait. I just had a terrible realization,” Solo hated to break from Kuryakin’s touch, but bites of fruit and cheese felt lonely and incomplete in his belly. “I’m sleeping with a communist.”

“How un-American of you.”

Solo climbed out of bed. Deciding they could make an afternoon of things, he collected two drink glasses from the lunch tray, as well as a bottle of wine he’d left for later use on a side table. He returned and set the lot on the glassy top of the dresser. From there, he proceeded to lose his vest, shirt, and trousers. 

He did this without comment--let alone _objection_ \--from Kuryakin, who knew Solo to be sloppy when it came to drinking in bed. Kuryakin relieved himself of his own wares; he’d been on the receiving end of a stain or two in the past, though he needed little incentive to join Solo. 

“Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Wine. You just saw me uncork the bottle.” Solo clinked his glass to Kuryakin’s, then waited until his partner had taken his first taste. “A gift from my friends at the American Embassy.” 

Kuryakin made a face like the fine wine had turned to sand and grit in his mouth. He swallowed it down, regardless, then set the glass firmly on the marble-topped bedside table. “Cowboy--” 

Solo downed his glass in one, then climbed back into bed. He positioned himself atop Kuryakin, knees down on either side of his middle, hands opened flat on the pillow under his head. Solo still wore a sleeveless undershirt, and underpants hugged his ass. Kuryakin leveraged himself up, forcing their chests and bellies flush. Kuryakin’s hands found the flesh of Solo’s thighs with a resounding slap. From there, he dragged his fingers up, under the thin material and from there found Solo’s ass cheeks, perfectly rounded and delightfully thick. He peeled the underwear back so as to expose Solo’s backside, while leaving his front still covered. 

For a time, there was nothing but the sound of shared breath, wanting gasps, and escalating heartbeats. It played over all the rest: the whine of the bedsprings, the soft thud of a pile of decorative throw pillows hitting the floor, the rush of the ocean outside their room, the scrape of grit and sand being blown at the bleach-white hotel. Combined, it made for a dreary little lullaby. 

Neither man heard the key jostle the door to the main room. 

Both heard the door close, and as Solo went right, Kuryakin dove left, each instinctively retrieving pistols they’d stashed in the room--Solo from the bedside table, Kuryakin from under the mattress.

They trained them both on Gaby. 

It was a nightmare born of fantasy; as impossible as it should have been, it was a doubly horrifying reality. 

She stood at the bedroom’s opening, dressed in her heiress drag of expensive labels and little concern for them. Her hair was teased into a messy ponytail, never mind the sleek style she'd started the morning with. It, like the absence of fake eyelashes, was surrendered to the elements. 

She lowered her oversized, white-rimmed sunglasses and surveyed the scene.

“And here they all thought you two didn’t get on well without me.” She pressed her sticky-red lips together. “Won’t Waverly be pleased.”

The _door_ , Solo realized. The door to the bedroom Kuryakin had closed after them, the door _Solo_ had left open after going to retrieve the wine. The door Gaby didn't even have to make an effort to peek into--he'd left it so jarringly wide it may as well have been an invitation. If it had been closed, she'd have guessed Solo had company, some girl he'd just met. Kuryakin could have made himself scarce. 

They could have been spared this humiliation. 

Gaby said nothing more, and only moved to deposit her sunglasses into her purse. She kept her eyes trained on her partners as they lowered their weapons. Except for Gaby--who had an entire spread--no one knew where to look. Solo glanced to Kuryakin for assurance, to Gaby for hope. Kuryakin stared at Gaby’s handbag, where he knew she kept a petite firearm concealed in a makeup bag.

“Gaby,” Solo started, his tone constricting in warning. Her calmness would guide Kuryakin’s; if she led the way he would inevitably follow.

But Gaby did not move a single step towards that direction. And beside him, Kuryakin was seemingly paralyzed in fear. He did not so much as breathe out of turn, as if somehow he could avoid her detection. 

He was over six feet of nude male body; nothing about him went under the radar. 

Gaby folded her arms across her chest, gave an embattled sigh, and looked towards the ceiling. “Have you finished or just started?”

“Finished,” Kuryakin said, and in an instant had collected his clothes and left the room bare-assed, a twisted collection of shirt and slacks covering his front. “Excuse me,” he muttered, humiliation plain on his face and evident in his movements as he passed Gaby and retreated to the connecting room.

Gaby looked sharply at Solo, who was still sprawled in bed. Although dressed in a shirt and underwear, he claimed a pillow in his lap for added coverage. And she was reminded, _gentleman._

“Just getting started, actually. No reason for him to suggest otherwise.”

“You’re terrible,” Gaby muttered, then averted her eyes while Solo stood and slowly started to dress. The tedium grated on her nerves and she snapped, “Aren't you going after him?”

“At this juncture, my dear Gaby,” he paused so that she might hear the telltale zip of his trousers and know that he was decent enough, “I think our friend requires a more gentle touch.” 

When her expression was still strict and expectant, Solo amended: “Goodness no, not mine.”

-

“Illya.” 

Gaby searched through the main room and bathroom. 

“Illya.” 

She next tried the attached room, _its_ bathroom, and--finally--the balcony. Kuryakin was stood against the railing, slightly hunched, his knuckles glaring white. 

“For goodness sake, there’s no need for dramatics.”

“I owe you apology,” Kuryakin said, though he could not bring himself to turn and face her. "I owe you... explanation."

He was visibly shaking, a fact Gaby had to revisit twice. Was it not the breeze off the ocean that stirred the fabric his shirt? She told herself it was this, and not Kuryakin fraying deep in his core, and stepping outside his very margins. She found she was half-expecting some jumbled lie, an explanation like that he'd given her of the 135 steps in Rome. It was what she'd come here for, in a sense, his signature move: practiced confidence in the face of someone who knew better. 

But he had nothing and knew it. Finding him in bed with Solo was explanation enough for all things, and Gaby could read it like lines in a book, a verifiable checklist of all his ills: loneliness, humanity, depravity. 

“You owe me nothing," Gaby said at last. "Except perhaps a proper hello."

Kuryakin marshaled himself to the task. "Hello. Gaby."

He turned by fractions to face her. It was such a thing he still could not will of himself that he did it by halves. Turned his body, lowered his head, released the railing, fisted his hands. 

“Some secret,” she mused, trying for lighthearted but only succeeding, it seemed, in traumatizing Kuryakin further. So she made quick work of things, summoning everything she thought Kuryakin ought to hear from her, and finding it did not stand against her to say these things: "I don't take any offense, Illya. I have your trust. It's very precious to me." She let those points rest, but knew there was another to answer for: the unmistaken slight he'd made against her heart. 

"And I'm married to the game, you see."

Kuryakin looked pained by that departure, and Gaby was inexplicably cheered--somewhat--by his distress. It bolstered the hope she’d been harboring that there was still a place for her.

But it was an ugly feeling, and she fought against it. 

“I suppose I should have known.” Her tone was sharp, but there was no sour mood or clipped way of speaking that could challenge the lyrical nature of her voice. Never sweet, hers was a voice that had breathed in exhaust from the chop shop, regulated itself for ballet, and never wavered in her work. Her voice--even whispered--spoke volumes. It sang.

Kuryakin grounded his own self internally, and spoke with his chin tucked low and his eyes downcast. He could hardly hear himself over the sound of his own thudding heart, which had come to sound like foot soldiers performing a steady, solemn march. “It is for no one to know.”

“No,” Gaby realized quietly. This was a greater thing than a simple infraction--it was a genuine danger, and not one she would have expected Kuryakin to take on lightly. “I suppose it isn't.”

She had questions she knew better than to ask: When did this begin? Where? And perhaps most damningly--was it an act they engaged in out of convenience? Because if not, _why Solo?_

As far as spies went, _as far as men went,_ Gaby believed Kuryakin possessed a wealth of integrity. His deliverance into Solo’s bed wasn't a mere chance offering. He did not look to his left, then to his right, and make an educated gamble. Solo hadn't been a choice, he'd been a necessity.

Gaby didn't know what to do with her hands. They went from curled and folded over her chest to pronounced on her hips, and back again. She hugged herself, as if Kuryakin had literally kept her out in the cold with his silence. Her own hurt and sentimentality surprised her; she should be glad, she knew, to not be party to this.

And yet, she felt inexplicably cheated.

“You couldn't have told _me,_ at least?”

“No. Especially not.”

Kuryakin felt ashamed for trying her on, as it were. He'd felt a great deal of affection for her, and sympathy for her circumstances. He knew how impossible a thing it was to be tied to your father’s affairs. Her involvement in the Vinciguerra case only convinced him further: she was extraordinary, and he was inherently unworthy of her company, be it through friendship or anything further.

He shifted his weight on his feet, and looked as though he was desperate for an escape. There was over the balcony and into the ocean, but he remembered what was it Gaby had said about dramatics. So he summoned the courage to spare a word for the matter, to answer for his silence and put a face on his newest shame. 

“If you were disgusted, I could not stand myself. If you forgave me, I would not deserve it.”

Gaby's hand found Kuryakin's and gave it a tight squeeze. But her heart failed her, and the kind words she had for Kuryakin were swallowed up by fear for his life. 

“This is our first mission together in weeks,” Gaby fronted. “It surprised me, that's all.”

Although gutted, Kuryakin played along. "Your absence has been a tremendous hardship. Solo thinks _he_ is in charge."

"Well, I'd say we have a responsibility to dissuade him of that illusion." She put on a smirk and wagered, “I'll do my part, and you do yours.”

Her joke fell flat, leaving her to resurrect the conversation with those favored tired bodies of their craft, logistics and intelligence. 

“Did I tell you?” Gaby pitched her voice as if lost to a performance. “Ms. Munro is tight lipped as they come, but her friends aren't quite so professional. Georgina Ramsey is on her third husband, but thinks she's found something special with the fellow. I'd say he was safe, but the whole lot aren’t so easily wooed. It's a delicious little club they've started--they share legal teams in case the money is tied up elsewhere… Honestly, I think Waverly should recruit them.” 

She chattered on about the case. Kuryakin only heard a dull, white noise drum between his ears.

“Yes,” Kuryakin heard himself interrupt. His tone was lost, absent from this phony conversation Gaby had started so as to allow Kuryakin to save face. 

He excused himself, sidestepped her in one move, and was back in the room and out the door in another six. Neither she nor Solo saw him again until the following morning.

-

Solo found Gaby sat out on the balcony, drinking in the setting sun and more than her fair share of a complementary bottle of Mahia, a local brandy distilled from figs and bottled right out of Meknes.

Gaby sensed his presence and gave the bottle a shake. 

“Sorry it's not champagne.” 

She'd kicked off her heels and had her feet raised high to rest on the balcony railing. With her short dress, it was hardly ladylike, and nothing remotely permissible in their host country. But she was playing the role of a petulant heiress, and nothing shy of risqué behavior would sell the image. Ardent professional though she was, Solo doubted she behaved with her cover in mind. Nonetheless, she was fortunate that her room--like Solo’s and Kuryakin’s--stood high over a small stretch of beach and a wealth of ocean waters. 

With her free hand, she drew her plastic sunglasses down her nose and looked pointedly at Solo. It wasn't a move he needed reminding of; her little gesture in the bedroom would not soon be forgotten. 

“Would you believe I spent weeks thinking maybe he'd gotten a dog?” she asked, then took another swig of Mahia, swallowing hard. “Lord knows where I thought he kept it. I knew he was seeing someone, is the point. I certainly didn’t expect it to be _you.”_

“Or the dog, I should hope.” Solo got the joke off fast, easy. But he heard something in Gaby's voice that unnerved him: just the right amount of spite, he believed, to do damage. He was dressed again in an impeccable suit, all sharp blues and greys, a splash of pale yellow. It was serenity, tailored to perfection, and something he'd hope would serve his narrative: there was nothing out of order, here. 

"You understand that, no matter my powers of persuasion, I did not talk him into this." _Not in the way you might think._

Solo held his breath a moment because he still felt lacking for cues from Gaby beyond her initial shock and, now, tacit disapproval. Solo knew better than most that disapproval did not negate compliance. Maybe she would relent, come to his and Kuryakin's side of things, if she was made privy to a secret. “It was almost… Accidental.”

Gaby remained unswayed. “Did you fall on top of him?”

“I think there was some falling for the other. Yes.”

It was the reminder of Kuryakin's involvement that softened her. 

Solo plucked the bottle from her grasp, then poured a small helping into the glass she'd brought for herself, but discarded. He stood, his attention momentarily stolen by the ocean view. Light was fading from the sky, drawing heavily towards the horizon. The water turned black in its absence. 

Solo asked her plainly, "Are you jealous?"

Gaby sighed. “It isn’t that I think you’re a catch, Solo.”

“Perish the thought.”

“But,” and here, she pursed her lips, as if meaning to deny her own words. “It doesn’t escape me that he climbed into bed with you, and never once kissed me.” She brought the bottle to her mouth again, but steadied her hand. “He wanted to. Oh, very much.”

"I should think that he very much wanted to love you," Solo replied. He pulled no punches; Kuryakin’s early affections for Gaby were obvious, if stunted if their presentation. And even for handing Solo his heart, there was no denying Gaby had touched it first. “In all ways. More than he already does.”

"Is Napoleon Solo the consolation prize?"

Solo raised his glass to her. "You know, it'd be a first for me."

"This is a first for him, you know."

"I know. You know?"

"You weren't the first to steal a look at that file."

"Or simply steal it, apparently." Solo chided himself; he really ought not underestimate Gaby. She'd given him every reason to watch his back around her, and yet here he was, making amends after exposing himself. "Gaby, I'm hurt that you wouldn't think to include me when you steal things."

“I'm surprised you want to talk inclusion right now,” she leered. The Mahia had gone to her head. “You'll give a girl ideas.”

Then, like Kuryakin had done, she composed herself. "Next month. That nasty little business in Kazakhstan we’ve been tasked to sort out."

"Seems entirely reckless and foolhardy. I'm quite looking forward to it.” Solo finished the rest of his drink. “What of it?"

"I'm just letting you know--I think I'll steal something from it."

Solo finally cracked a soft smile. "Anything I can do to help.”

“I'll keep you informed.” 

-

Some days later, Gaby had sufficiently enthralled her targets with tales of her flighty husband, her belief that he's taken a lover, and her nonchalance for that fact. 

“As if I haven't got a dozen of my own,” she'd told them, her lips again wet with Mahia. She'd developed a taste for it.

Even the stoic Ms. Munro had been intrigued. “Your bodyguard, I hope?”

“Oh, honey. A hundred times over.” 

She was welcomed into the fold, pending one minor detail. 

Axing Solo was a rather staged production, but Solo played his part admirably. One mortally wounded husband later and Gaby was inundated with a wealth of information: how to collect on his life insurance policy, who were the best stateside lawyers to collect on properties, and--most importantly--reassurances from Ms. Munro that, no matter how high the profile, people would sooner blame a dead man’s demons than his wife. 

Gaby's next act was all her own, a deviation from the mission made only after she was certain Solo and Kuryakin had gone go the rendezvous point and were far enough away to stifle their involvement. She explained herself and brought in Waverly. Her line to Kuryakin about recruiting these women had not been idle chatter; she meant to do it.

The move didn't sit well with Solo, but by Gaby's design, he was in no position to put a stop to it. He was an hour northeast of Rabat, all elbows and knees in a too-short, too-narrow shower, washing dried blood out of his hair. The water temperature only hovered around lukewarm, and the water itself smelled of sulfur. Solo didn't linger.

Wrapped in his blue-and-burgundy striped robe, he let Gaby's choice stand, and considered only what was left in his control: his suit jacket and shirt were a complete lost cause, gone to the mixture of goat’s blood and syrup Kuryakin had prepared the night before. But Solo maintained hope for the tie and slacks. He spot-treated them in the bathroom, then left the matter to fate. 

The hat, blessedly, had died with Solo’s cover. 

He joined Kuryakin in yet another hotel room, this one inland rather than beachside. A desert surrounded them rather than an ocean, yet the sense of vastness was shared. The room itself was smaller, with just a bed and a dresser hugging the blue-painted walls.

Kuryakin was sat on the bed, case between his legs, headphones pressed over his ears. He looked intent, listening to Gaby's U.N.C.L.E pitch from the depths of Ms. Munro's purse. When he felt the bed sink under Solo’s added weight, Kuryakin discarded the device and reclined longways on the bed. They laid there for a moment, not touching, their behavior not so unlike an old married couple. 

They hadn't touched since that afternoon in the hotel in Rabat, since Gaby made a discovery of them. Solo ached for a return to the way things were, but found it in himself to be patient. 

“I suppose we can't be saving the world every mission,” Solo reasoned dryly. “Do you think it will work?”

Kuryakin was careful and with his words, choosing and sharing them sparingly. “I think Gaby will succeed.”

With his tongue--as in most things--Solo was greedy. He spoke every thought he had in his head, forming and uttering them at such a speed they may have well been overlapping. “Maybe they won’t take to it. Some don't, you know. Even those who train for it. Maybe they’ll be killed a week in and Gaby will be responsible for that.”

“They’ve killed before,” Kuryakin reasoned. He had faith in Gaby's judgement. 

Solo rolled his eyes. “Their _husbands,_ who thought so little of them that they may have very well handed over a pistol and said _go for it._ ”

“What do you care.”

“A jury wouldn’t convict, and the press would love them.” Lines creased Solo’s forehead, but he kept any spite or upset from his voice. “They don’t have to do this.”

And the realization struck Kuryakin--finally--that Solo saw himself in these women and their current predicament. He felt a strong kinship towards them he hadn't otherwise made apparent during the mission--and one that he only admitted to now, seemingly, when his influence was lost to the effort. It was a rare display of futility from the spy. Kuryakin supposed there were unmistakable hints along the way, namely Solo’s quick dismissal of the case and early and repeated indifference to their crimes. 

He sat up in bed and looked down upon Solo. “They haven’t been caught.”

Solo further expanded on his own twinned sympathies: “Or sentenced. Or blackmailed.”

Kuryakin wet his lips, tasted the words before he said them: “You want to go, I can't stop you.” 

It was a ludicrous lie, but the fact that Kuryakin got it out in its entirety made Solo smile. 

He sat up too, abandoning the cool damp spot made against the pillow by his clean hair. The room was hot and the air seemed to buzz before his eyes. He'd have liked to open the window. 

He sighed, and his robe gave a little as he did, gasping open as if to retrieve the breath Solo had surrendered. And so Kuryakin was gifted with another sight: Solo’s chest hair, dense with clinging water droplets but echoing the same natural curl as its cousins. 

Solo seemed to be giving Kuryakin's offer its due consideration. “No,” he decided. “I can only hope Gaby will recognize the inherent irony in the situation.” He smiled--not the grand gesture or stunning show it ought to be, but a grim little thing. “And you're right, of course. They're killers. But coercing them into this line of work won't remedy that so much as… Build their resumes.”

Kuryakin shook his head, said, “I did not think.”

“Well,” Solo hummed, and worked open his robe as he laid back on the bed. “You've been preoccupied.”

Kuryakin drew himself closer to Solo, fit their bodies together with practiced ease. He took full advantage of Solo’s state of undress, slipping his cold hand under the neck of Solo’s robe and getting a handful of the hair he'd admired. 

Solo closed his eyes, and imagined the very sight of them: stretched out in bed, Solo on his back and Kuryakin turned towards him, knees slightly bent because nothing in this world--beds included--were made so as to suit him exactly. 

Then there was Kuryakin’s hand on his chest, and Solo’s own drawn high and propped up, so that his fingers dangled just above his partner, toying with the blonde mop of hair he kept so neat. It should have been an unmitigated pleasure: they were alone, well outside the city, and expecting a phone call rather than a visit. Better still, one of them was presumed dead.

Yet, Solo recognized Kuryakin's grip as panicked. This was not the touch he was accustomed to, sharing a bed with his partner. In bed, they found comfort and relief, an unspoken safety net. Now he had Kuryakin's nails biting into his skin, and nothing like relief to speak of. 

Solo sat up again, forcing Kuryakin to loosen his hold. Solo may have been slipping out of one flimsily drawn robe, but Kuryakin was wrapped tight at every entry point: shirt buttoned to his throat, belt drawn at his waist. Solo made quick work of the latter and tugged Kuryakin's trousers down off the jut of his hip bone. “Come now,” he teased. “This is hardly fair.”

He tutted and kept his tone light, believing Kuryakin would sooner relent if there was no perceivable threat, only an abundant and welcome invitation. Solo had the pants down to Kuryakin's thighs before his partner’s stillness registered as too near a thing Solo did not wish to revisit. He set about the buttons on Kuryakin's shirt instead, this one a lighter blue, a shade that benefitted from his coloring but almost seemed decorative, given his preferred wardrobe choices. It was a costume, same as any Solo had ever worn, so it did not matter that it suited him. Solo resigned himself to never seeing Kuryakin in it again.

Solo was a button away from Kuryakin's navel, and yet the man was still as stone. 

“Peril?”

And finally, Kuryakin stirred. His chest heaved upwards in a great, soundless sigh. 

“I forgot the dangers,” he said. His gaze, once lost to the ceiling, found Solo’s. His eyes seemed to reflect the paleness of the room, and their bright, searing blue was diminished, made watery and weak. 

Solo felt his gut constrict as if great lengths of his intestine were caught in a vice. It was a regular occurrence in recent days; he had little else to do than complete the mission and concern himself with where things stood with Kuryakin. He was admittedly out of practice--for the past decade, matters of the heart and bedroom had been regulated to single nights. Here, he'd racked and purged himself on their dilemma. The search took him through his own errors and Kuryakin's, as well as all that had been done--purposefully or not--to constrict their paths. Entire countries and rooted teachings blocked their way. History rose up to meet them. Common sense nipped at the soles of his shoes.

He wanted a solution, but came up with nothing, and only managed to dig himself into a deep, bottomless longing for the eagerness Kuryakin had once displayed. 

“Do you blame me?”

“I---” Kuryakin's expression contorted itself, leaving a look of muted unease for a vision of steely resolve. “No. I blame myself.”

Solo finished his task, and Kuryakin made all the necessary movements to shrug off the shirt. It was hot, and the extra layer of clothing while lying in bed was unnecessary. 

“Gaby isn’t a danger to us. She’s our friend, yours and mine.”

“She is perhaps our only friend,” Kuryakin corrected. “And there are… other dangers.”

Solo observed his good work: Kuryakin’s exposed belly was a fine reward. His skin was still warm from the sun, and without proper lighting in their room, the medley of scars adorning Kuryakin’s body were quieted. They sang when his fingertips brushed their jagged designs, but for the time being, Solo did not need to touch. 

“We’ve been discreet.” 

“Does not matter,” Kuryakin murmured. “We've been fools.” 

_To think this was our own. To think we could skirt realities because we don’t live real lives._

He said these words in his preferred Russian, thus granting them all due grimness and weight. 

Solo felt it, too, but he was not Russian; he could not labor under such fears. It wasn't in him to cede all hope or surrender to the expectations of others. 

“Remember when you believed every inconsequential thing was a set-up by your handlers? The silence. The noise. A raise in your pay cheque and suddenly you're one of the bourgeoisie. Those weren't tests.” Solo did not belittle Kuryakin's intelligence by finishing the thought aloud: _This is._

All the same, Kuryakin grimaced and turned his head. 

Solo pursed his lips then tried again. “Gaby knows some part of--all this. Will you tell her she is mistaken?”

“I do not--”

“There are words for this. You said.”

“They are not for her to hear,” Kuryakin said. His warning tone told Solo he was not to be played in this way, never to be threatened to expose himself a dozen times over with explanation over lie over truth. In defense of secrecy, there was his soft heart. “But. Yes. I believe them, still.”

Solo quirked a half-smile. He smoothed his hand over Kuryakin's side, fingertips grazing the waist of his underwear. 

“It is too hot,” Kuryakin objected quickly, and Solo steadied his hand.

“Of course.”

“Is colder. In New York.”

-

It was snowing when they arrived at a bleak hour of morning in New York, and snowing still that afternoon when Kuryakin left U.N.C.L.E headquarters. He took the sidewalks, knowing the subways would be spilling with passengers. He did not mind the cold. Back home, it was a fixed certainty, an absolute entity. As sure as the air it pierced, there was snow.

It had had its heyday in literature, primarily after the Napoleonic Wars. Kuryakin was inspired by this to follow an old route to Solo’s apartment, stopping first at his preferred bookstore. He hoped to find proof of a poem he knew--an Alexander Pushkin piece--and share it with Solo, who professed not to care for winter. Kuryakin believed he could be swayed. 

He arrived at the shop only to find a note taped to the door in the owner’s blocked script, claiming he’d gone for coffee and would return shortly. Again, Kuryakin did not mind; although it was only the afternoon, light was fading fast. He preferred to venture to Solo’s apartment only in the dark. 

The cafe across the street was busy with customers, and although no one should be sitting on the snowy patio, one man was. He’d wiped down a chair and cleared a small path on the table for his coffee. Kuryakin knew him before he saw anything other than a figure out of the corner of his eye.

Dmitri.

Kuryakin did not wait to be summoned. He approached his fellow agent promptly.

"More pictures, Dmitri? Agent Solo is alive and well."

 _"Filthy degenerate,"_ Dmitri spat. His Russian was acid to Kuryakin's ears. 

He unzipped his coat, Kuryakin thought, to produce a weapon. 

(Three to the chest, Kuryakin would come to believe, would have been kinder.)

Dmitri did have more pictures. A tidy collection of Kuryakin and Solo, together in bed, or standing undressed before one. There was a shot of Solo wrapped around Kuryakin from behind on a balcony. Kuryakin felt sick. He could place three of the hotel rooms, but most damningly, he recognized Solo’s bedroom. 

Snow fell on the glossy pages. 

A helpless denial-- _“No”_ \--was all Kuryakin could manage. He lost the photos and his balance when Dmitri shoved him, then struck him--hard--across the face with an open hand. He lashed out a second time, then a third, and finally had the wherewithal to close his hand into a fist. After that, Kuryakin lost count. 

Dmitri, though once a trained fighter, had lost any discernable sense of finesse. It did not matter; Kuryakin did not fight back. He took the barrage of offenses--Dmitri landed at least one well-placed punch along Kuryakin’s eye socket, mimicking the long-healed wound he’d had since childhood. 

It gave Dmitri a distinct sense of satisfaction to see that cut bleed in real time. 

Kuryakin felt the cold soak his clothes as blood warmed his face. The dichotomy was dizzying, but like the assaults to his person, Kuryakin felt none of it. He was lost to some other plane of existence, surrendered to as ruinous an end as he’d always been promised. No physical hurt could match it. 

He lifted his head to Dmitri as if to say, _more._

Dmitri eagerly complied. 

There was shouting from across the street. The returned bookstore owner had recognized his regular customer as the one being savagely beaten. 

Dmitri shouted back a challenge in his phony American accent. Kuryakin felt red bloom before his eyes, but it wasn’t the call to war he’d battled since his youth. It was simply blood, drawn from his person and splattered in the snow. Kuryakin groped the ground for the scattered photos. He had to collect them, _destroy them._

Dmitri’s boot came down on his fingers, halting his search. The snow was forgiving, and Kuryakin did not--at least--suffer the indignity of a broken hand. 

“You can keep these. We have copies.” 

And Dmitri watched as Kuryakin-- _the KGB’s best_ \--shuffled through the snow on his hands and knees, collecting the images that would seal his fate. Better yet, they’d follow him into any afterlife. And if Kuryakin chose to advance himself to that end, so be it. 

Dmitri spat at Kuryakin, the glob of saliva landing in the man’s hair. “You are _never_ coming home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was a long one! For those who might be curious, I think this story may have two more chapters. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Kuryakin ran to Solo’s apartment with every intention of screaming in the man’s face or beating it to a pulp. _Discreet,_ he'd said. Like it was a word that applied to him in any respect. 

_Discreet._

As Kuryakin ran, breath hot on his face as it escaped in great bursts from his lips, New York seemed to fall away from him, leaving only the sidewalk and a skyline. Everything else--every human carrying groceries, walking a small dog, leaning on a lover--was consumed by a red mist of Kuryakin's own making. They burned up into nothing as he passed, long legs carrying him far and fast ahead of any car. 

He was a spectacle, he knew. But running was the least of his problems--as sure as the blood that caked his battered face, Kuryakin wore an unmistakable shame. As little as he understood of this attempt on Solo’s reputation and how it Kuryakin himself would pay for it, he knew this much: for Dmitri to have relayed this information was a genuine affront. _Dmitri,_ who had never been an accomplished agent, but instead vied for and attained a _post,_ itself a task any better agent would have corralled an actual American to do for him. _Dmitri,_ who had spent a decade helming the task, but had made no significant advances. _Dmitri,_ who had new teeth, but no bite.

Kuryakin supposed he ought to be thankful the bookstore owner intervened with demands to stop and threats of calling the police; they'd been enough to force Dmitri to abandon his stake in Kuryakin's ruined face and pride. If Kuryakin was forced to run away from him, well--what was one more humiliation to his monumental collection? 

He cut through a park where children were enjoying the last dregs of winter with a messy snowball fight. When they stilled and parted for Kuryakin to make his way, it was as though even at all of thirteen years, they understood the sight of a broken man was deserving of its own reverence, however bleak.

Kuryakin was fast upon Solo’s apartment when he went off course. He would not have known it himself, except for the snow pelting his face changing directions. It was when he disappeared down an alley and stood between a crumbling brick wall and a dumpster that he bent at the waist, rested his hands on his thighs, and regained his breath and some sense. 

This was not Solo’s doing. 

Kuryakin grasped the concept in one, but he repeated the sentiment a thousand times over. It was never his strong suit, just knowing a thing. He had to believe it. The dedication it took to command a sentiment, to will it into his very being, to mark himself with it, was what had made him such an accomplished KGB agent. 

Solo was as much a victim now as Kuryakin, if not moreso--covered several times over by blackmail from one creeping agency or another. Perhaps he'd been loose with his affections, taking Kuryakin on in hotel rooms, touching him ahead of a window because he wanted to feel the sun on Kuryakin's skin, smiling at him openly, because it just wasn't as fun to duck away and drown that moment before it could even be had. Solo wasn't _taught,_ he did not _know._

Solo and disaster had only met and walked away, elevated.

It was Kuryakin's induction to the union that ushered forth absolute chaos. 

So the fault for their discovery rested with Kuryakin alone, who had once known better. He’d met Solo for every move, then advanced the steps further. And most damning of all--he’d wanted it. 

Kuryakin had all but welcomed this.

He wiped blood from his swelling eye socket and gritted his teeth at the sharp, unexpected jolt of pain. Dmitri had rather enjoyed himself at Kuryakin’s expense, and though Kuryakin had given the assault little consideration at the time, it was undoubtedly a problem. It was proof positive of some misdeed. He could lie without question to his U.N.C.L.E superiors, but there was no hiding from Gaby any longer. She would have to know the whole of it, same as Solo.

He cleaned his hand in the snow and, knowing that the dumpster to his right provided ample cover, Kuryakin then retrieved the photos from the interior of his jacket. It churned his stomach to do so after having them waved in his face, presented with as much certainty as a death certificate. 

The notion struck him that he had not looked so closely at the images. Dmitri had been clever enough to have the life he had now, living like a king on Wall Street--perhaps he'd had the wherewithal to merely present the _idea,_ and surmise the truth from Kuryakin's reaction. Maybe they weren't genuine. _Maybe--_

No. Kuryakin gave Dmitri too much credit.

The photos showed hotel rooms they'd shared. Solo’s face was clear in a number of them. Kuryakin's, less so, but the form and figure were unmistakably all his own. 

He studied the one taken of himself and Solo in Solo’s apartment, and tried to place the trajectory. The shot was made through the bedroom window, specifically the split in the drapes, likely from across the street. It had all the hallmarks of a marksman’s precision, steady hands, cautious. It may have well been a sniper, Kuryakin thought. For what it meant. 

How many times had Solo told Kuryakin it was safe, that he’d looked into the lives of his prospective neighbors, that solitude was the building’s chief selling point?

 _It does not matter,_ Kuryakin reminded himself. But in looking at the picture, seeing Solo smiling, standing, one arm reaching to switch off the lamp, Kuryakin could not fathom anything more cruel than the simple fact that someone had intruded on that moment. He remembered it clearly--the whole night, even, was something he revisited like a favorite passage in a book. 

Solo had cooked a meal--a beef stew and fresh bread with a surface that cracked--and they’d listened to music, then argued about it, and carried that conversation on into the bedroom. 

They were both fully dressed in the photo. Their presence in the bedroom could have lent itself to a thought for what they might be doing there, but by in large it meant nothing. Rather, it was the look on Solo’s face that gave everything away. There was nothing crafted about it, no movements to purposefully set off his jaw or catch the best light. Affection smoothed the lines in his forehead, the smile that played on his lips was ageless, and his eyes were focused so precisely on the man before him, and set with a lively affinity one might approach with a view of nature: like what he was looking at was entirely endless, endlessly curious, and wholly exhaustive. Simply, he looked unencumbered. 

Kuryakin wiped at his eyes again, this time not seeking blood. 

When he stood, the first thing Kuryakin did was upturn the dumpster, easily as though it was nothing but a wastepaper basket. Its contents went streaming down the alleyway and into the street--garbage, food scraps, even an old loveseat. 

Solo’s apartment was another three blocks away. He walked them, impossibly slow. 

-

“Who did this?” 

Kuryakin looked as if he did not understand the question. It registered, then, that Solo would only ask this if he thought Kuryakin hadn’t already killed his attacker. There wasn’t enough blood for that, and Kuryakin’s knuckles remained unbruised. He hadn’t fought back. 

Solo was a quick study--when Kuryakin forgot this, it was always to his detriment. 

"I need you--" Kuryakin started, but choked on the words. Then, in a tone so flat and drawn it was as though he was apologizing for his unexpected presence and nothing more, he said only, “Forgive me.” 

Solo had given thought to how returning from Morocco would change things, what Gaby's induction into their secret would spell for them both as it followed them home. He could understand Kuryakin keeping his distance after their discovery, imagined too that it would persist and mean to tear their lives asunder.

Of course, he would not let it. He'd give it a week or two, based on previous scares. Kuryakin would return to his meager life, nights spent in solitude or as good as, walking the streets of New York City or sat alone in his office. And Solo would bear it, wait out his partner’s hesitation. 

He'd find a woman or a man, enjoy an evening with their company. He'd toy with the idea of taking them to bed, a thought that inevitably found him when he spied a pretty face. So far, it had not come to pass. Solo did not allow himself to ponder on why that was.

He'd expected for something like Kuryakin's prolonged state of mourning for his mother to come back to haunt him. A shrewd estimation, yes, but Solo was sure in its making. Kuryakin would find himself alone, shouldering the weight of his old loss and the daunting fear of this new one, until he remembered what pulled him out of that place once before. 

And he’d come back. In time, Solo knew he would.

But two days after their return was unexpected. And showing up with a face rendered in broken bones, blood, and tears was unacceptable.

Solo took him by the arm and led him as far as the bathroom, where Kuryakin sat on the closed toilet and Solo busied himself collecting washcloths and a first aid kit. He took a knee and carefully began his routine: blotting where there was new blood, carefully massaging the dried streaks, and searching for the point of contact. Between Kuryakin's nose and upper lip, the blood had partially crystallized, a product of the bitter cold.

Kuryakin did not aid in this endeavor; his hands were on his knees. One index finger tapped a slow, methodical production--a drumbeat to match the solitary tune that plagued his mind in his darkest moments. 

Solo sorted Kuryakin's broken nose, again ushering a stream of blood that drained as though from twin gutters. Kuryakin did not so much as blink at the pain. 

His lip was split at one corner of his mouth, placement that promised a slow and painful recovery. The eye socket was badly bruised and swelling, but Solo did not believe it had been broken, much less that Kuryakin would experience lasting aggravation. 

There would be a scar, of course. Company for the others he carried.

Solo’s last task was his most tedious: while Kuryakin’s eye remained undamaged, blood had crusted over his long eyelashes, forging them together into an ugly approximation of a wink. For this, Solo took a warm rag and smoothed it gently over Kuryakin’s face, brow to cheek, careful not to draw into the wound itself. With his other hand, he cradled the back of Kuryakin’s head, where he unknowingly made contact with the glob of Dmitri’s spit that had found itself there. 

He held Kuryakin so close that it seemed impossible for air to fit between them--let alone a washcloth. Solo smiled for him, but if he thought he could unwind Kuryakin and provide a moment of simple ease, he was mistaken; Kuryakin’s gaze remained pinned to the floor. He did not see the smile and, Solo believed, if he had he would not have understood it. 

By the time the congealed substance had broken down and was cleared away, the soiled cloths had piled up on Solo’s bathroom floor, their color ranging from heavy red to--eventually--a spotted pink. Solo noticed Kuryakin's coat was zipped to his throat, and that his arms and retreated and come to encircle stiffly over his middle. When Solo made a move to undress him, to inspect his torso for hidden wounds, Kuryakin shot out an arm and pushed Solo back.

Solo did not relent. “If you've been shot, I think I'd like to know.” 

Kuryakin said nothing. He wished it were that simple.

“Just--tell me. Do I need to get towels?”

Kuryakin stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking. His eyelashes, being wet and spidered together, made his expression all the more bewildered. Solo’s propensity for jokes and humor at the more inopportune times was not a thing--like his confidence and style--that Kuryakin had come to appreciate. Yet, Kuryakin knew he would desperately miss it. 

In that moment he wanted to lie. Thought he _could_ lie, too--convince Solo of a nearby attack. Something random, in such a circumstance as he could not defend himself, lest he draw undue attention. Thank him for his tenderness, admit he felt foolish for turning up like this, but he could not very well walk the city looking like he did. Apologize. Smile. Repeat the line about being a fool. 

It would buy him twenty-four hours--maybe?--of a life wherein Solo did not yet know the truth, and therefore could not hate him for it. How long before he was blindsided by the KGB, who would surely stalk, isolate, and advance on him with their blackmail material, then gleefully coerce him into double-agent status? How long before they would trot Solo back to the CIA, demanding he produce their secrets, name agents, and share intelligence? 

They would have in their corner the means to end Solo’s career and sully whatever life he might have made, after. Kuryakin wondered if this scenario would promise his own immediate end, or if he’d be kept around, a target on his back, insurance for Solo to do his job. Solo had been betrayed by a lover before--a beautiful and jealous woman who handed him over to Interpol under the guise of a fantastic haul of antiquities to fill out his personal collection. At least she’d been angry with him; Kuryakin had only been foolish. 

Would Solo even spare a thought for his life?

 _Why should he,_ Kuryakin thought bitterly, then crumbled. 

He curled forth and dropped his head into his hands. Unmindful of his wounds, his grip turned hard. Head bowed, all he could see was the lingering damp streaks on his pants--heavy at the knees and down his shins. Worse than the bloodied face he’d carried, the wet spots were evidence that he’d _kneeled,_ and presented himself for every blow. 

It looked like the worst of things. Kuryakin closed his eyes to it, for once treating thoughts of violence and humiliation with wretched acceptance, rather than the rage both deserved. 

It was only after he released himself that Kuryakin was finally able to speak. He looked emptily at Solo. 

“I don't know that I can continue.” 

“Don't you?” Solo kept his composure, thinking someone had to. Kuryakin had reopened the cut at his eye, and Solo again brought a washcloth to rest on it. To him, Kuryakin sounded--and looked--as though he'd been driven out of his own mind. When he spoke, now, it was only as an allusion to reason. 

"I was contacted."

Solo privately lamented how this one phrase became shorthand for bad news. 

“What do they have that is so important to you? Your name? Your legacy?” No matter how often they visited this well, their interpretations were mixed: Kuryakin saw his reflection in the waters, while Solo knew there to be nothing but rocks gathered at the bottom, polished clean but deadly sharp. 

“My mother’s name. My father’s.” Kuryakin thoughtlessly touched the watch on his wrist. Its face was obscured by red fingerprints. “And my--” 

Kuryakin did not know. Had he already surrendered his life? Had his time with Solo cost him that much? Blood pounded so loudly in his ears that when he spoke, Kuryakin could not hear himself. 

“It does not matter now.”

He stood, left the bathroom. Solo followed only a step. He leaned coolly against the doorjamb, not one for being led around his own apartment. He was dressed in wool slacks, a button-down, and a cable knit sweater--just a coat, scarf, and pair of boots away from stepping out to do a bit of light shopping. Wine, frozen pork chops, onions, a nice warm brandy. Having an apartment lent itself to these kinds of quiet evenings, and he was quick to take them in. The CIA’s clandestine nature stole these moments away from him, hand over fist. 

Solo scratched a thumb over his brow, a gesture of mild annoyance. He valued Kuryakin's visits, planned or otherwise. It wasn’t rare for him to arrive agitated, and admittedly it was a task Solo rather enjoyed--whether he was teasing Kuryakin out of his restlessness, or bringing him softly into submission. But the man carried too much tension with him, now, and it set the air off like something had been badly burned and left to smolder.

Given more time--and an altered _mood,_ surely--Solo would have set upon Kuryakin with all his usual tricks. But here Kuryakin was darting in and out of his line of sights, agitated, angry, coming apart within his own skin. 

_Unseemly,_ was Solo’s first thought. Then, _Telling._

“Illya…”

Kuryakin saw the collection of brass-colored light fixtures on Solo’s kitchen table. He’d missed them, coming in. There were two strings of half a dozen lamps held by finely crafted chain loops. They had the look of miniature houses, tall and narrow, with domed tops threaded together in geometric designs. Kuryakin spared half a second to wonder if Solo had recovered them from a supply closet in the hotel, or if he’d brazenly led a lone expedition to take the very ones he’d admired from the lobby itself.

This harmless consideration carried Kuryakin towards another damning conclusion: Solo may have excelled as a CIA agent, but it was hardly an identity he carried branded on his very heart. He was, at his core, a man after adventure and beauty. He was part dandy, part rogue, and lived as grand a life as he could manage, despite the promises of prison, blackmail, and ruin. He laughed to mask his fear, and ran when all else failed. 

And at worst, Solo’s penchant for theft was home-grown--having arrived in this world with so little, he saw no fault in stealing from those who had too much. His was no grand crime; he’d merely gotten himself on the wrong side of important people’s tempers. 

The KGB would not care; they would make of him whatever they wanted. A _genuine_ traitor to his country, for starters. An assassin, surely. They’d start with mutual targets to tame and educate his compliance. Eventually, he’d graduate to bigger scores. They’d force him to arrange the deaths of his fellow agents, and upwards along the chain of command. Waverly. Sanders. All were marked men. 

And if Solo wouldn’t do it, if his conscience held and he laid down his life to save his soul, his would not be a simple death. He’d be made to wish he had done every imaginable wrong, if only then to quicken his passing. 

Kuryakin bent at his middle and looked as though he was going to be physically ill. Then he straightened, and approached Solo as a man possessed.

“Forgive me. Please. Please forgive me.” Kuryakin was shaken, ruined by his forthcoming revelation. His superiors had what they wanted, and despite shrugging off orders to inform on the American, Kuryakin surrendered Solo’s secret to them all the same. Surely they'd doubted him, followed _him,_ and found more than they'd ever need.

Solo put a hand on Kuryakin's forearm, but again was rebuffed. His attempt to calm his partner was met with such ferocious denial that Kuryakin's skin might as well have been seared by Solo’s touch. 

“Why did you come here?” There was a time Solo would have had to be mindful of his tone, keep the haughty air out of his voice. If a visitor wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't touch him, wouldn't even _look_ at him, what was the point? He'd never fallen back into that place with Kuryakin. It had taken time, but he'd since learned and adapted, and spoke with patience as easily as though he'd picked it up--just another language in his travels. Of all things, Kuryakin required that much in a partner: grace in understanding. 

“I wanted to see you.” 

Solo was fishing for a more detailed explanation, but this was all Kuryakin had. His tone was not one of gentle embarrassment, however; he seemed duly consumed by his own selfish nature. It crowded the sentiment. 

“And show off your bloodied face?” Solo said, and again he tried smiling. “I haven't got one, and now I'm jealous.” 

A crease found itself between Kuryakin’s brow--an accomplishment, given the swelling blooming on one side of his face--and settled there. 

“Never mind,” Solo said, forgoing any further attempts at lightening the mood. “Care for a drink? Please don’t take offense when I say I need one just looking at you.”

He managed a half-step away before Kuryakin caught his arm and drew him back. 

“No. Don’t,” Kuryakin grit out, and found himself wanting so much to simply take Solo to bed, and once secured in drawn covers and strong arms, to again whisper private truths. He wanted more time--enough to lay his head on Solo’s warm and hairy chest, and count a hundred heartbeats, just a hundred more, to add to his collection of thousands.

Kuryakin reminded himself it was what he'd wanted that put Solo in such danger. So he steeled himself to his task. The grip he had on Solo’s forearm threatened to slide down, catch his hand.

Even as he stood on the cusp of his own downfall, Kuryakin still believed he could have done something to prevent this--something drastic, to be sure. What if it was not the intended slight he'd imagined, and Dmitri really _was_ so valuable a contact that his handlers would relay this information through him? Kuryakin could have taken him, ransomed his life and continued secrecy for a clean slate. If not for him, then for Solo. It could have been done. The longer Kuryakin thought on it, the less reason stood against him. He was stronger and smarter than Dmitri; but he was more cowardly, too. That much was clear to him, now, and Kuryakin knew Solo had long seen that in him, and yet forgiven him for it.

Solo would not forgive him this next, last betrayal. 

“You are kind,” Kuryakin said. He was trying--and failing--to tell Solo everything he wished he’d said before. “I do not know that you know that.”

It was a compliment drawn from the page of another apology. He stared at the floor, unable to meet Solo’s questioning gaze. He'd always meant to inform Solo of this, his greatest unspoken achievement. He _was_ kind, even for all his calculated moves and shrewd estimations of others. Kuryakin knew this, because nothing in him called for sweetness and a gentle touch; his very form rebelled against it. Yet Solo delivered.

Solo looked ready to dismiss the praise, call it a winning gamble and leave it at that. But the severity through which Kuryakin shoveled his words gave him pause. This was not what he'd come here to say; this was a preface, only, to something entirely more devastating. 

Kuryakin opened and closed his mouth, no longer able to speak, yet the truth laid before him was unavoidable. He unzipped his coat and collected the illicit materials. 

“Perhaps I have succeeded in one thing,” he murmured. “I have doomed you. They have their blackmail material. Here,” Kuryakin surrendered the incriminating photos to Solo. Then, in a voice so muted it seemed not to come from his own mouth, but instead was squeezed out of the air itself, he said, “To remember us.”

For all his kneeling on the cold ground to collect those photos, Kuryakin did not now register them leaving his hand. But Solo’s expression--tight, then fallen--told of their explicit passing. Watching Solo take in the images, Kuryakin wondered if this was how he’d looked when he finally laid eyes on the evidence of his torture and supposed death. He had so adeptly willed himself into a column of marble, cool-to-the-touch and perfectly poised, that to see him now was to mistake him for some other being altogether. His lips were pressed into a line, paper-thin, his jaw misaligned and set at an ugly angle. His eyes narrowed--first at the pictures, then at Kuryakin--as if to say, _This is not happening. You did not hand this to me._

When the pristine blue became masked and shaded under his dark lashes, Solo did not look like himself at all. 

“My face,” Solo said, the realization slow but sure. “Mine, never yours. Why is that?”

Kuryakin could only shake his head; he did not know. “I am sorry.”

“Will they come for me?” Solo asked plainly. His voice neither wavered nor sang his distress; he took this information as though he was not party to it in the least. 

In fact, he was merely testing the waters. 

The CIA had pulled him out of a holding cell after six days of sharing the space with the criminal element, a calculated move so as to give him time to contemplate his future. Though, Solo felt the guards left the greatest impression: for all the power and authority they held, they were thin-skinned, and took every minor slight as a personal affront. It taught Solo never to get personal, but always to lay tracks like he was--little thefts, infractions--to mask all greater plans. He learned quickly to give them every reason to hate him, and made those reasons plain to the naked eye. The law was short-sighted; its officers would follow the most obvious path. It was a method that served Solo well for some time: he fudged his expenses and covered his multiple, private bank accounts with a collection of fine wines and truffles, while scrimping everywhere else. He slept loosely with scores of beautiful women to mask his quiet relations with men. The CIA hounded him about wetting his beak and being too cavalier; they did not see him building a life for himself. 

Somehow, he believed the KGB would be more direct. 

Solo looked sharply to Kuryakin. “Or is that why you’re here?”

Kuryakin felt his heart constrict in his chest. Solo’s opinion of him, the things he saw in Kuryakin, were all things Kuryakin preferred to the vision he had of himself. To Solo, he was gentle, had an artist’s eye and a smarter mouth than most would assume of him. It was as though Solo had hand-picked these features, and now to have them questioned was almost more than Kuryakin could bear. He felt his fingers reach out, find nothing. 

“Cowboy…”

“Stop,” Solo told him. “Stop that.” 

He was angry, tipping towards furious. No one would guess it, given his even-keel tone, but Kuryakin made no mistake. He took a deferential step back. 

Solo again paged through the photos, affording each a discerning look. They were mindfully taken--two bodies in each, varying degrees of nakedness and intimacy. Yet there was no artistry about them, no thought for the figures’ own beauty. In a sense, they were nasty shots, reminiscent of a drunkard’s wet and grubby hands as he pawed at uninterested flesh. Solo was sure he was looking at a threat; he realized, too, that Kuryakin had walked in with the very same on his face. 

He regretted being sharp with Kuryakin, and glanced at him, quietly seeking forgiveness. “Just give me a minute.”

Kuryakin nodded. Although Solo very likely meant for him to stay, Kuryakin had an intrinsic understanding of just how unwanted he was in that moment. It wasn't necessarily even spiteful; it was just how Solo must have felt, faced with what Kuryakin had brought to him: an ending of sorts. Several, even, twisted together in some unholy trinity of career, life, and love.

Kuryakin left the apartment, but he did not venture far. Reason and sense swirled in his head like a wolf’s howl, though he could not be made to heed his own warnings. Kuryakin circled around Solo’s apartment, decided on its weak defenses on its right side, where the tree stretched to reach just under Solo’s window. The trunk stood near enough to the building’s side that Kuryakin could crouch there, among a short line of bins, and remain largely unnoticed. He stationed himself there, sitting on the hump of an upturned, plastic sidewalk shovel. He ignored the thudding pain spreading out over the side of his face as the swelling settled and gave way to bruising. His bodily systems finally slowed enough to read the scripts left there: pain, humiliation, disgrace. 

He burned through half the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, chasing one after another in the race to calm his nerves. He felt the tightness in his chest unfurl and give way to an artificial relief, the likes of which he could seemingly taste--like the sickly candy-sweet of an aspirin left too long on the tongue. Even as the smoking aggravated the split in his lip, the naked cold did well enough to numb the pain. 

When light left the sky and night brought a new definition of cold, Kuryakin turned up the collar of his jacket to hug the warmth of his turtleneck. He meant to stay there all night.

He did not inform Solo of his plans--he hoped it went without saying. 

_I will kill them if they come._

-

Kuryakin did not disappear into the kind of muted funk that plagued him after the death of his mother; instead, he became a heightened presence, ruthless in every aspect of his work. If the case called for surveillance, he brazenly broke into homes. To dispatch of any who posed a threat, Kuryakin did not hesitate to use lethal force. He maimed and killed, seemingly without thought for another way. Mercy had left him. He had, in a sense, become the man Solo and Gaby had first met: some great unknown, a mountain peak ghosted in air so thin you could not see for it. He was fast and he was forceful; a being more physical than human. 

His presentation was not so much a final plea, but a resignation to whomever his handlers sent to kill him. 

_I am a good agent. You trained me well._

If given the chance, Kuryakin vowed they would be his final words, too. His superiors would know that a canine appetite for his country followed him into death.

That much was apparent to both Gaby the Solo--Kuryakin saw himself for a dead man, in every way but the last. And while he accepted his punishment, Kuryakin would not let his shame touch Solo, who did not belong to the KGB in the same way that he had never willfully submitted himself to any power. 

Because despite his guilt, heartache, and defeatist spirit, he had not been stricken heartless. There were things he did, small acts of contrition as he began what felt like a life’s work of apologies to Solo, rushed, because he knew he’d never have time enough to fully render himself accountable for his misdeeds. He carried luggage and dropped bodies, all with a pitiable look that spoke to how much he had yet to do. 

He never slackened in his pace; if there was one thing more he could do for Solo, and another, and maybe another after that--he’d live only so as to pay for his mistakes with his last breath. 

Beyond the clipped _“No need”_ and _“I have it handled,”_ Solo neither spoke to Kuryakin’s efforts nor attempted to downplay them. It was better that Kuryakin occupy himself than needlessly ponder on Solo’s motivations for his silence.

There were things to be done. Solo knew this much after Kuryakin had given him the photos, but he’d known it from before, too, back when words might have drawn them closer than hands and mouths, back when he heard secrets before desires, and heartache seemed to preface every tender touch. But the time for talking was passed; he’d gone to ground, informed Gaby of everything. First she’d been gravely upset, and even threatened to bring in Solo and alert Waverly of Kuryakin’s predicament and corresponding behavior. Kuryakin was being reckless, she reasoned. He was going to get himself killed or worse. 

Solo convinced her of what they both already knew: Kuryakin was in that position regardless of the risks he now took. She relented, and together they plotted. 

And in the meantime, Solo abandoned his apartment, spent a few nights in hotels and a few more on Gaby’s couch. Missions kept him busy and, because Russians meant to unnerve him without making themselves known to U.N.C.L.E, Solo had yet to be contacted. 

Still. It was difficult, Solo found, not to be in a position to speak with his partner. Kuryakin denied him even that, excluding it from even their quiet moments when their hands did not touch and their breath did not mix. There was only silence carried on squared shoulders and a gaze that followed the line of his broken nose, never once lifting to meet Solo’s.

Perhaps most difficult of all, Kuryakin’s attempts at goodwill did not reach the bedroom. He was adamant in this; he would not further attach himself to his mistakes, and Solo’s chilly reasoning--what _more_ harm could it do?--did not dissuade him. He gave it all up--had to, if his superiors were to see that he was still dedicated and worthy, and not lost to American decadence. 

In this way, Kuryakin hoped to shield Solo, to paint him as a flippant attachment and nothing more. Nothing worth the attention the KGB had afforded him, at least. 

Though, if they'd been watching, they knew better. 

Solo had hoped that that the vast empty spaces and thundering mountains in Kazakhstan would do its part to take them out of their current situation, afford them a little perspective. The flattened hills and howling tall grass were all painted in shades of dust--dusty green, dusty brown, dusty grey. Beyond them, the mountains stood, a dusty blue. The world was quite a place--a man could go unnoticed and disappear into some unsung corner of it. 

But Kazakhstan proved itself profoundly inopportune for precisely this, because Russia’s creeping influence was _everywhere_ \--it was the predominant language heard on street corners and in train stations, it was the ruined countryside to the northeast, and--most glaringly-- _Russians_ were the majority of the population. 

Kuryakin was uneasy there, and so it was best that the mission hinged largely on Solo’s abilities as a thief. Their target was a wealthy businessman who had unknowingly bought up weapon plans in a sweep of a grand estate sale. Gaby, playing the part of a foreign exchange student and friend to the man’s daughter, gained the family’s trust in just a few short weeks. When the timing was opportune, she simply pointed Solo in the direction of the goods, and kept the family busy with a night out to celebrate her supposed birthday. 

Kuryakin was a second pair of eyes and hands for Solo’s work, though for as quickly as they were in and out with their secured goods, he really wasn't needed. (The sole exception was a yapping terrier, which Kuryakin dealt with by scooting it across the kitchen floor with his shoe, then locking it in a bathroom.) When it came time to make their escape, Kuryakin did take the wheel in their truck, however, leaving Solo to enjoy playing passenger. He fiddled with the radio, but to no avail; the music scene was as desolate as the landscape.

Their target lived well outside the capital in a Spanish-style home that looked about as out of place in Kazakhstan as Solo did, in his Italian suits. It was barren country, punctuated only by great, hulking pieces of abandoned construction equipment. Remnants of a hungry empire eager to collect territory and make something of it, they dotted the horizon as they drew closer to their hotel. The occasional yak, escaped from some hillside farm, wandered along the lone, long road into town, watching cars pass. It wasn’t much for an exciting hobby; vehicles were few and far between. 

So Solo wasn’t sure what Kuryakin kept looking for in his side and rearview mirrors, unless he feared the sunset might be following them.

“Awfully quiet today,” Solo said, a joke. Kuryakin had hardly spoken since their last meeting in New York, and the same held over into their stint in Kazakhstan. For his part, Kuryakin had mixed feelings about the mission being completed nearly a week ahead of schedule: it meant leaving this place behind, but returning to New York did not improve his prospects any.

“And you?” Kuryakin asked carefully. His knuckles tightened on the wheel. “All… Quiet?”

Solo did not know why Kuryakin bothered being coy; there was only one thing they ever talked about anymore. 

“The Russians haven't stormed my room and demanded my services yet, if that's what you mean.” He looked Kuryakin up and down-- _coy_ was not his bag. “Pity.”

Kuryakin did not treat Solo to the welcome sight he wanted: a blush, tinged by amusement and annoyance, playing itself over his neck and touching his cheeks like gathered sunlight. Solo did not now often tease Kuryakin--admittedly, even he was not in the mood--but when he found it in himself to chance another try, he was always disappointed. Kuryakin had entombed the part of him that once indulged Solo in these moments. 

“They will come,” Kuryakin said. Hs voice came out thick, packed with gravel and heavy from disuse. “Do not mistake their patience for hesitance. You do not frighten them.”

Solo lazily pursued the documents they'd stolen. “Then we’re at a standstill. They don’t frighten _me.”_

“Grandstanding,” Kuryakin scoffed. He set his gaze firmly on the road ahead, but his attention belonged to Solo alone. He'd done this all too often, and in falling back into it now, he managed the technique with such ease and grace it hardly seemed as though he was doing it at all. “You only make yourself more appetizing target.”

“You’d never cross them, would you?” If Solo couldn't get a handle on the dedication Kuryakin professed to his country before, it so escaped him now that it might as well have eclipsed his very mind. He saw the hair on Kuryakin's neck prickle at the insinuation that he hadn't already done _exactly_ that--crossed his country like an ocean--so Solo added, a touch blandly, “Intentionally, of course.” 

“It is as I told you,” Kuryakin said in an outright huff. “My country is my cause.” 

But Solo knew they both remembered what Kuryakin had once said, his breath wet-hot with alcohol, his mouth a pleasant surprise on Solo’s skin. As were his late-night confessions--Kuryakin did not want to die as a mere extension of his country’s political will, and he was trusting enough of Solo to tell him so. 

Worried that Kuryakin would deny it all--every muttered word of insubordination, of a desire to live a life beyond his service, and every insinuation that such a life should have Solo in it--Solo let the uneasy silence speak for itself. He did not doubt a word Kuryakin had told him in confidence, but as things stood, his allegiance seemed to have only been tested by Solo, and won by his country. 

Solo hoped that could still change, yet.

“They want you scared,” he said, a reminder for all that had happened to them. As if Kuryakin could forget. “And when you go around killing every little thing that moves, that’s what they’re getting.”

Kuryakin wanted to point out that he'd showed commendable restraint with the terrier, but knew better than to start a teasing match with Solo. He'd never win, and Solo’s victory would be to have him competing in the first place. Worse, he feared he would too easily lose himself to conversation. If he let Solo have that much, the man would steal away all of Kuryakin's resolve. 

“You have found new apartment?” 

“Yes.”

Kuryakin checked his mirrors again. “Good. Keep moving.”

-

Gaby was already at the hotel when they arrived. She'd changed out of her orange party dress and into a pair of plaid slacks, shirt, an oversized grey sweater. It was, Kuryakin remembered, the outfit she'd worn entering the country, but hadn't donned again since. It was, for her tastes, unusually frumpy. 

“I forgot to mention the dog, didn't I?” Gaby asked by way of greeting. 

“You did,” Solo confirmed, “And yet here we stand, unmauled.”

“The CIA’s finest and KGB’s best,” Gaby drawled, the words leaving her tongue as if rolled from silk. “Your titles remain intact.”

Kuryakin, sounding board to-turned-participant-in his partners’ humor, made himself absent from it, now. He followed suit with Gaby, and turned, with the sole intent of packing his own few belongings only to find his shaving kit and clothes placed neatly in his open suitcase. 

“Weapon plans,” Solo announced, filling the silence left by Kuryakin. He retrieved the papers for Gaby's inspection. “Bit technical for my liking. Must sound to you like a bedtime story.”

Gaby did not answer him. She only set about reviewing the documents before sealing them in a plain yellow envelope, and securing it between a dress and a slip piled in her luggage. Her movements were hurried, then retraced--a sure sign of nerves. 

A week ahead of schedule. Their planning had afforded them this much, and depending on Kuryakin, it would give them much more. 

Gaby looked to Solo. “All set?”

“After you,” Solo said, and went about twisting the silencer off his sidearm. He did not know why he bothered; he’d leave everything behind here in the hotel for U.N.C.L.E officials to find when they did not call in their mission status. Everything he needed, he’d posted from New Jersey to a P.O. Box in Kazakhstan weeks ago, and it was waiting for him now just a short drive away. 

As for guns, well--this wasn’t America, but he could pick up a few choice pieces along the way. It was an added hassle, but Gaby insisted on it: it wouldn’t do to leave behind everything but their weapons. It suggested an intent for wrongdoing.

In Gaby’s mind, this excursion was justice, however they pursued it.

She squared her shoulders and looked Kuryakin dead in the eye (and had to lift her head substantially to do so). 

“We’re taking a little trip,” she said. “To the town where your mother is from, where her older sister still lives.” Kuryakin's expression fell from one of solemn indifference to great unease. Gaby wet her lips, pressed, “It’s where you think she's buried, correct? Well. You’re going to pay your respects. Because--because you shouldn't need to _ask.”_

Gaby did not give Kuryakin a chance to say ‘no.’ She turned and snapped her suitcase shut, though it was her intention to leave it--clothes, weapons, completed mission and all--should their absence become realized. 

To Kuryakin, she continued: “We fly from Uralsk to a small village outside Birsk, where I’ve arranged for a car. From there, it’s just us and the open road.”

It was a simple plan, almost crude in its construction. But Kuryakin knew it for what it was: an open effort to be made in stolen time. And while Kuryakin seemed to have not comprehended what was being offered to him, he undoubtedly gathered that it was a plan of Gaby’s making, not Solo’s. _Solo,_ he could argue with. Gaby’s word was first and final, and surer still, she knew better than to put her plans to a vote. The agendas of others could only compromise her own initiatives, so even before Waverly approached her, compromise had never been her way. She did not become the only _little chop shop girl_ behind the Wall by chance, let alone mere _odds._

Gaby’s beauty made it easy for men to want to forget what made her dangerous: her ferocious spirit, indelible fortitude, and natural flair for the game. Kuryakin never lost sight of those things, but he still hadn’t expected she’d put them all to use, employ all her powers and wit to chance an act so egregious, so wholly against orders that it may as well have been an invitation to war. All this, _on Kuryakin’s behalf._

Dumbly, he murmured, “There are no airports in Birsk.”

“What’s ground if not an aspirational runway?” Gaby asked with a shrug. “It’s not a commercial flight. It’s something a little less… lawful. No one on that plane is looking to inspect your passport, if you know what I mean. And we’ll be packed in tight with some other cargo.”

“Cargo,” Kuryakin repeated, though his mouth did not seem to move in tandem with the sound of the word. It fell behind, half a beat. When the whole of the idea hit him, Kuryakin seemed to physically bear it with a slow, exaggerated shake of his head. 

He said, “We.” 

He said, _”No._ Is suicide.” 

But he hadn’t said it to her face--Gaby was too quick for that. She’d turned, made sure her belongings were in order, then shelved her hands on her hips--so slender and narrow, she practically belted her sweater with her own hands. 

Her stare was just as cutting. Her sole intention was to make this venture work, and to do so required the obscuring of Kuryakin’s very presence, let alone his identity. Gaby had every confidence she could manage the task herself, leaving Solo’s purpose unspoken, but understood. 

He was there to hold Kuryakin’s hand.

Gaby took a tone with Kuryakin, and spoke to levy a harsh reprimand: “If you go alone, make inquiries, they’ll find you. If it’s me asking around, no one blinks an eye.” 

Gaby flashed the engagement ring Kuryakin had given her, returned to her finger after a long absence. It was strange to see it again, in part because Kuryakin felt it carried real meaning. All the things he'd wanted desperately to want, but came up short after expectations touched with affection and longing. There was more to it that--Solo was proof. 

With Solo, there had been no expectations and then--suddenly--there was everything else. 

Kuryakin glanced to Solo in that moment. Lodged between Gaby and the engagement ring, Solo was a left turn. Solo was there to meet him, his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders back, casual as one could ever be when plotting to temporarily break from their agencies and venture into enemy territory. It was a stance he'd adopted for Kuryakin once before. 

Though the exchange was brief, Gaby saw. She felt, too, the assurances that had silently passed between the two men, and her smile was tinged with sadness when she said, “I’m the fiancée, after all.”

“I like those odds,” Solo piped up. Kuryakin had a soft spot for trinkets, and some part of him would simply not want her to risk the thing on him at all. He’d rather keep the fantasy alive than rekindle it now, turn it into something baseless. Solo could not allow the moment to linger. 

Kuryakin was torn. This was a risk he’d not been willing to take for himself, and yet here it was, all but giftwrapped for him. The response at his lips--another, more pronounced refusal--threatened to spill. Gaby stepped forward, breached the space between them, and took hold of Kuryakin at the wrists. It was a demonstration of force, the best she knew how. 

“This is how I protect you,” she told him. _“Let_ me.”

A threat hugged her words, meant for Kuryakin if he refused her. He was quiet. She released his wrists. He was still quiet. 

Kuryakin turned to Solo. “No suits.”

“Who said I was going?” Solo asked, then, “Why no suits?”

“Going by car across Russia. Is no way to travel for anyone, let alone man with suit.”

To Gaby, Solo smiled. “Look at that, he's right on board.”

-

They flew out that evening, arriving in Birsk just ahead of the sun. Their plane--loaded with everything from knock-off jeans to illicit narcotics--clipped a farmer’s wheat field in its first attempt to land, and was no more kind on its genuine descent. 

“There’s a car in that field,” Kuryakin observed. It wasn’t a thing he would have spotted from the ground only, parked as it was amidst tall grass. 

“That’d be _the_ car,” Gaby said, then palmed the pilot a goodly sum for his silence. She smiled at Kuryakin, who caught her in the act. “Carry the bags, won’t you?”

The car came ready-packed with canned food, water, blankets, ammunition, jugs of gasoline, and a small assortment of other necessities--all thanks to Gaby’s foresight, no doubt. Kuryakin and Solo deposited the bags into the trunk, where Kuryakin paused, still unsure of this entire venture.

“Don’t look so eager,” Solo said, and though he aimed for teasing the comment landed dry and flat. “You’ll get to ride in the trunk eventually.”

Gaby took the first stint driving. Solo sat up front with her and, until they cleared the major city centers, they decided it would be best for Kuryakin to lay down flat along the back seats. To fit, he went sideways, curling his knees up to rest in the center partition. From there, his only view was of Solo. 

Kuryakin spent hours watching his partner study maps of the region. Then, once confident in his ability to make any number of rerouting efforts, he began to fiddle with something he’d stolen off the flight--of all things, a ring from the pilot’s finger. 

“A wedding ring,” Solo announced. Gaby glanced at him, not understanding. Kuryakin lifted his head slightly. “Would you believe it? He was wearing five.”

“Maybe he is spy,” Kuryakin mused. It was the first he'd spoken since they set off. 

“I’ve never married someone for a cover,” Solo said, and glanced up into the rear view mirror to show Kuryakin his attention. “The CIA isn’t much for women in their ranks. I know some agents who make a career out of it, but,” Solo paused, let a shrug enter his speech when the gesture did not suit him, “It's quite the commitment, however you slice it.”

“We’ve all seen how far I’ve gotten,” Gaby said, again flashing the stone on her finger. 

Kuryakin was quiet for a time, until he realized the silence would answer for him. It was something of a recent development--a nasty little thing he'd picked up from Solo--but he'd rather be hanged by his own words than those he refused to say. 

“I have married. For mission.” As he spoke, he ignored what he expected to be a pitying look from Solo reflected in the car mirror. “Twice, with same woman. Documents genuine, names false, sort of thing.”

“Please tell me you were a more composed husband than fiancé,” Gaby teased. 

It embarrassed Kuryakin to realize he _had_ been far more restrained in his attempts before Gaby. Granted, the situations could not have been more different--before, he'd been under the tutelage of another, knew better than to be brisk with her, and was never in a position to even _attempt_ to call the shots. 

“I was much younger. It was her mission, my training.” And when Kuryakin finally chanced a look, he found Solo’s expression to be one of quiet admiration.

“Much younger, hmm?” Gaby waggled her eyebrows--a gesture largely unseen behind her enormous sunglasses. “And was she much older?”

Kuryakin turned over onto his back and stared up at the roof of the car. There was little in use way of interior--that much stopped at the seats--and all that was there for his inspection was plain metal brushed with paint. It wasn't even the same shade of blue as the car’s exterior. 

“She is fifty-nine, now.” 

-

They drove for over twelve hours, only stopping when they’d passed a city and found themselves hard pressed to come across another. It was isolation they wanted, and the forests cut with sprawling meadows and forgotten fields promised them that much.

They worked against the blinding headlights of their own car, pitched off the road and parked, angled so as to banish the wind from their makeshift camp. They moved as black silhouettes until Solo had produced a small fire, and Kuryakin returned from a quick check through the northerly woods. None spoke; their quest for security made them uneasy to do so.

Overhead, the night sky was brilliant, with stars spilled so heavily that, the darker it got, the brighter they shined. Trees reached for the heavens and fell tragically short. The air was clean and the earth, uncorrupted. And they were alone. 

Their meals would come from cans for the foreseeable future, and even then it was all beans and preserved fruits, nothing even remotely meat, lest they run the risk of attracting scavenger animals. 

In the duffle that was meant to be his own, Kuryakin uncovered a simple toothbrush, a roll of toilet paper, a washcloth and half a bar of soap. He counted three plain cotton shirts, two heavy-knit sweaters, a pair of trousers, and a smattering of socks and underwear. On top of it all was a simple knit hat, a shapeless thing so wholly unlike his preferred flat caps that Kuryakin did not want to touch it, let alone assume it as his own. He stared at the collection, said, “These are not my clothes.”

“You can't very well go around looking like you,” Gaby reasoned. Her gaze cut through their small fire to meet his, and she felt herself wanting to apologize, despite knowing Kuryakin better than that. She added pointedly, “If you don't like them, blame Solo.”

And Kuryakin's hands stilled on the pile, wary of what he might find. Solo’s eye for fashion was well beyond his own and in Russia, Kuryakin could not imagine a worse disguise than a man dressing above his means. 

Solo gave him an exasperated look. 

“Call off the dogs, I wasn't as adventurous as I'd have liked,” he said, and drew his blanket tighter over his shoulders. “I know where we are.” 

Kuryakin returned to the duffle and, after some digging, found what he supposed he was looking for: a coat. It wasn't one of his own nondescript plain jackets. It was a heavy leather, soft and lived-in. It lacked much in the way of details--two simple pockets in the front, a ribbed waist and wrists, a high collar with a snap closure. Its interior was a thick wool, worn down in the armpits and across the shoulders. The piece wasn't new, but its beauty was unmistakeable. Kuryakin examined the tag and knew the brand from a leather goods shop not so far from the bookstore he frequented. Intellectually, Kuryakin knew Gaby and Solo had been planning this rendezvous for some time, but the thought that this could have been a gift all the same-- _no._

Kuryakin snapped his mouth shut, so that not even a breath of his suspicion could be heard.

“Thank you,” Kuryakin said in a voice both dismal and heightened, as though he'd been swept up into something wonderful, but feared the inevitable fall. 

_Like Dorothy,_ Solo thought. Leaving dreary Kansas for the Emerald City, but misplacing her family all the same. 

The fire’s light cast a shadow of Kuryakin's eyelashes across his cheek, and when the wind picked up to change the flame’s direction, that light cut across his nose, long since healed from its ugly break. Their small fire gasped and sank low, then rose again once the breeze has passed. The moment Kuryakin slipped his perpetually-cold hands into the pockets, his gaze found Solo’s. It _had_ been a gift, and here was another: a key to Solo’s apartment.

He knew the shape of the notches, every one of them. He’d borrowed a key enough times, but always made a point to leave it on the counter prior to his departure. It was a patient little act, a thing to keep him from becoming complacent or--worse--wandering up to the apartment one day and finding that Solo had stolen it back. Kuryakin refused to count himself among those whose time with Solo was finite from the start. 

Solo frowned, realizing what Kuryakin had uncovered. It was the old key, obviously. This was an old gift. 

“Goodnight,” Gaby said, her tone cheerful as though in blazing through borders and regulations, they’d simply won the day. Petty powers were not her concern; she saw justice on the horizon, and herself and her partners as the tools to service it. 

But she’d gone unheard by her partners, who were themselves consumed by some greater message of a longing forged both against time and tremendous odds. 

-

In the morning, Solo was irate.

“No razors?” he asked, already touching his growth of stubble and looking dismal for it. 

Gaby countered, “You could do with a disguise.”

She was wrapped in her clothes and blanket, and though she had watched since dawn as Kuryakin brought their dying fire back to life and boiled water for coffee, she had not extended her hand to accept a cup. Solo drank his down as if starved for it. 

Light was slow to find them, first having to travel meadows and scale treetops. Their camp was dusted in a pale blue glow, the fading remnants of night. It was colder, now, than it had been when they’d called it a day. And even fully dressed, the chill found its way through wool blankets and long underwear to touch their bones and slow their waking. 

Gaby in particular was slow to rise. Solo and Kuryakin had changed their shirts and underwear before returning the previous day’s layers of clothes long before she’d even resigned to sitting up. Her fingers--which Kuryakin saw when she raked them through her hair, attempting neatness--were tinged blue. She was freezing.

Kuryakin rose, stepped over their firepit, then stooped beside her. He took her hands in his and inspected them. She winced--his were no warmer than her own. 

“Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Gaby admitted. 

“Is fine,” Kuryakin said, but stripped himself of his gifted coat all the same. Even over all that Gaby was wearing, the coat was roomy. She lost her hands down the long sleeves, and the ribbed waist grazed her knees when she stood to model the garment. Kuryakin zipped it for her, knees to throat.

“Thank you,” she said. Then, to no avail, she tried to reach her hands outside the overlong sleeves. “But you’ll have to do my hair now, you realize.” 

Solo huffed an amused laugh from where he sat on his own piled bedroll. His breath, a white gasp, joined those drifting above his cup of instant coffee. 

Dryly, he said, “Oh, me next.”

And whether it was the bizarre set of circumstances or the hint of challenge in Solo’s joke, Kuryakin felt compelled to make a show of force, however contrived. He gestured for Gaby to sit. Still in his kneeling position, he procured a brush and an elastic from her opened duffle, raised them like weapons. 

He curled his hand to collect her errant locks, some still half-drawn in the curls she’d worn the day before, smoothed them down, and began brushing from the ends. Kuryakin was far more gentle and careful in this task than Gaby had been herself; he combed out bits of grass and knots, not of a mind to stop until the hair felt like silk in his hands. Solo abandoned the two, claiming he’d leave them to play beautician, and would be pissing in the woods if anyone needed him.

“Probably going to look for a sharp rock to scrape across his face,” Gaby mused, and found herself feeling totally at ease in Kuryakin’s care.

“He likes a close shave,” Kuryakin agreed. His tone was flat as if to prohibit even the _sound_ of genuine sentiment--a heavy thing, it carried weight. 

Gaby had long ago dismissed the notion that anything these men said went without some unspoken meaning. Even a unremarkable _he likes a close shave_ was riddled with insights. She took in a breath--the first that morning that didn’t make her teeth chatter--and surveyed the clearing they’d taken for their own. There was a smattering of shrubs, red in color, their leaves tough and smooth, that speckled the earth like spilled blood. 

“Can I ask,” she started, and was reminded of her line of questioning with Solo. She tempered her frustration, now, as shock gave way to honest curiosity. “Why Solo?”

Kuryakin’s hands stilled in her hair, his fingers cold on her skull and neck. Suddenly, they were strangers to one another. Beneath him, Gaby refused to shiver. 

“Why not Solo,” he said, sounding parched and hollow, an empty vessel.

“Why not a tree, why not a hole in the ground,” Gaby rolled her eyes. “Really. Illya.”

His hands left her hair. Gaby did not know it, but they’d settled flat against his thighs. Kuryakin, while tempted to close his eyes to the drumbeat readying to pound through his blood, kept them open, instead. He stared down at the back of Gaby’s hair where the ponytail ought to be. He saw the curve of her neck before it disappeared into the ribbed collar of the coat Solo had gifted him. Then he saw beyond it, to the meadow’s sparse red grasses. 

He blinked against a sudden chill and took a breath--short and shallow--before he managed to command a strength within himself that allowed for an honest answer, words spoken without shame or fear. 

“He make me feel exposed. I did not like it, to start. I told him things--I will never again breathe word of.” 

Kuryakin blinked again, the answer having found him before he could give thought to its implications. 

“You miss it,” Gaby said, thinking, _You miss him._

“Yes,” Kuryakin said, thinking the same. 

“He adores you,” Gaby said. Before Kuryakin could sputter out some cold line of denial, she persisted, “We talked about not doing this. He talked. I think he’s worried we’ll never see you again.”

“I am not--” Kuryakin faltered. Gaby and Solo could have planned for years, but there were thing--powers, entire world orders--outside their control. And the greatest risk was nonetheless carried by Kuryakin. Knowing this, he quieted. “I am not staying. Obviously.” 

“That’s not what we’re worried about.” 

Kuryakin’s hands returned to her hair. 

Gaby stared off towards the woods where Solo had disappeared. She moved her fingers in Kuryakin’s coat sleeves, privately noting that they felt better already, but not yet willing to give up the warmth afforded to her by Kuryakin, or through whatever extension of him he was capable of offering. The second Kuryakin finished her ponytail--drawn to one side, just as she liked--she turned on him and asked plainly, “Did you want to do this?”

Kuryakin’s momentary silence was not answer enough, and he knew this. But the journey was only beginning, yet, and there was only so much confidence to be gained from a single night’s survival. 

Still. There was something for him in the freezing morning air, the cramped car, and the willing company he had at his side. 

“I believe I need to. And I believe you knew that before anyone.” They both saw Solo emerge from the treeline. Kuryakin quickened his pace as a result. “Thank you. Even if--” he shrugged a shoulder, knowing no better means to mime his own death than nary a care, and finished, “You brought me home.” 

Solo returned, having washed his face. He looked handsome--always--but the wrinkled clothes and scuffed boots were an affront to his tastes. Likewise, the uniform growth along his jaw and his curling hair--absent its usual pomade lacquer--upset his aesthetics. If he was dressed in one of his pressed suits, he’d look entirely wrong. That seemed to be what genuinely upset him about this small corner of the plan: in just a night’s time, he could become absent from himself. While evading Interpol, how often had he donned his exact mask, and disappeared clear off one continent or another, only to appear anew in some lavish resort?

So here he was now, very concerned with not looking like himself, however much that was the point. 

“My,” he said, his smile cheeky in its perfection, “Don’t we all look lovely?”

Any response to his teasing was swallowed up by a loud blast in the distance. There was power in its first crack, tailed with a definitive wail. Kuryakin instinctively knew it for a hunting rifle.

“Quiet,” he said, and no one moved. 

Four deer, tails erect, boasting brilliant white streaks, darted out of the woods and into their clearing.

Another shot cracked through morning like a hammer through glass.

“Kill shot?” Solo presumed, because he'd seen the same as Kuryakin: the small herd was comprised solely of does, with no buck in sight. If this was merely that--a hunter collecting his prize--there would be no reason for anyone to breach the line of trees and see the most curious camping party imaginable. 

“We go. _Now.”_ Kuryakin said, and hastily rolled his sleeping bag into a snug ball. He did the same with Gaby's and Solo’s, and took all three into his arms. Solo made quick work of their fire pit, kicking it apart and clearing the ash with surrounding dirt. Gaby swept what was left of their camp into her arms, hurling it--and herself--into the backseat of the car while Solo, a course of misdirection ready in mind, took the wheel. Kuryakin sat with his sidearm at the ready; if there was a threat, it would come at his side of the vehicle, and he would answer it. 

They drove for over two hours, incident-free. Gaby took advantage of the space and the car’s relative warmth to sleep, trading Kuryakin’s coat for a dense wool blanket before she did.

Solo broke the silence the moment it had set. 

“Someone is following us,” he said--not a question, though he supposed of anyone, Kuryakin would know. His partner’s tight nod said as much.

“Insurance.”

“Your friend,” Solo guessed. Already, he did not like it. “She do this often?”

“She is mindful of me when I am nearby, yes.”

That was impressive, bordering on the supernatural. Solo decided to cut it down to size, asking coolly, “Uh-huh. Did you call her?”

“In New York. She already knew of upcoming Kazakhstan mission.” 

Solo’s frown deepened. That placed her in a position of some importance with the KGB, considering the intimidate knowledge she had of Kuryakin's work with U.N.C.L.E. “Can she be trusted?” 

“Our lives may depend on it.” 

Kuryakin presumed if she meant to follow, then she would aid their journey in her greatest capacity: throwing shadows over their passage and warding off those who might find reason to follow. He knew better than to think it was anything less of a hard sell, but if Solo had further disagreements, he kept them to himself. 

Kuryakin chanced another look at Solo. His unshaven face had the bizarre effect of casting its own shadow down Solo’s throat, which looked blackened even in the warm light of morning. A strange look for him generally, it was not unknown to Kuryakin, who had seen him many mornings in similar states of disarray. Presentation was only one small part of the whole package. 

Now, Solo glanced over his shoulder to see that Gaby was still fitfully dozing. He pitched his gaze forward, then, down the patchy road and towards some unmet horizon. 

“I’ve released them,” he said. “The photos. Passed them along to a friend of a friend who’s willing to float them for sale. Like those of my supposed death, they’ll be seen as forgeries.” A tight little grimace commanded his features; it was all he would afford that awful memory. “I re-released those, too. Inundate the market, you know. I was almost sad to see them go.”

Kuryakin tore his attention from the sparse countryside, and focused solely on Solo. His partner was calm in this admission, assured in its telling. The words he used to explain his choice, however, were so informal that Kuryakin rightly guessed he'd first found practice in saying them to himself. Simple, too. Like all the best lies a man can tell himself.

Kuryakin felt his chest tighten. “This is a great risk.”

“I’ve already taken it. And here we still are.”

Kuryakin could see the reason in it: another batch of _Napoleon Solo originals,_ so close after the last proved false? On the international front, it weakened both efforts at extorting either funds or intrigue. At home--for Solo--it cut at the arm reaching out from the KGB to take him by the throat. Maybe he'd only managed to sever a few fingers, but it was a start. 

The relief Kuryakin suddenly felt was so alien to him, he very nearly could not place it.

“Is brave,” he said, his voice trailing some distance from his sentiment. He’d come to realize that Solo’s declarative tone incited a kind of uneasiness in him. It was a near-pavlovian response: when Solo was sure of something, Kuryakin knew to question it. And he questioned Solo’s plan, now. “And stupid.”

Solo flashed him a charming smile, like he still meant to sell Kuryakin on something he’d already done. “Sanders got wind of it all, of course. Jumped through hoops to make the case that I was going deep cover. Mind, he made this case _to me.”_

The very notion made Kuryakin sick to his stomach. It was his fault Solo had been made to stand before his superior, to shoulder an incredible new shame heaped upon him by a short, ugly little man. Solo had told him at length that Sanders took great enjoyment in reminding Solo of his crimes and the years of service he had yet to fulfill. Sanders did this in front of other agents, too, a fact Kuryakin worried had extended itself to this instance. How many American operatives now knew of Solo’s proclivities? Worse still, who knew the depths of his attachment to Kuryakin? It could not be avoided; even if Solo cavorted with hundreds of men, it would be unlikely many professed Kuryakin's combined height, stature, and coloring. 

It was an uneasy truth, and Solo was disappointed he couldn't offer much in the way of disabusing Sanders of the notion, or assuring Kuryakin he'd at least tried. It was unremarkable in a sense--the kind of problem normal people faced in their genuine lives, not the sort of thing a spy should have such trouble with. Defacing truths was his life, but Solo found himself limited in his capacity to protect Kuryakin from boldfaced facts. No, Sanders and those like him were all too eager to believe Solo for a pervert as well as a criminal.

“I'll let him go on believing that, I think,” Solo said, because reimagining his relationship with Kuryakin as a part and parcel of his deceit was the best they could hope for in terms of obscuring his superiors’ view of them. “I don't mind lying to those who aren't deserving of the truth.”

Kuryakin could only nod. He had not planned for this. Secrecy was paramount, his first-- _best_ \--line of defense. 

“I know you think we’re all here taking turns driving you to your death,” Solo said. “We’re not. It isn’t. We’re too good.”

“Mine is a forgone conclusion,” Kuryakin murmured. “I am more concerned for Gaby. For you.” They passed an abandoned truck, left nose-first in a ditch, overgrown with grass and dense shrubbery. Kuryakin kept his gun level. “I feel as though I’ve ended you myself.”

“Don't go taking all the credit,” Solo smirked. “It's the job.”

“It is internment,” Kuryakin corrected. “Yours. And I should have known better.” He wanted Gaby to wake up, to be the reason he could not continue on with Solo, sharing private thoughts. 

She didn't. And Kuryakin could not stop himself. 

“You had nightmare last night.”

“Heard that, did you?” Solo rolled his shoulders. He hadn't slept well, nightmare or not. “Surprised me, too. I don't often have them on missions. I think they prefer to strike when I'm cozy, relaxed, in my own apartment.”

“Your new one.”

“Yes,” Solo said, and was charmed by how Kuryakin managed to inquire after it without putting his interest into words. “Officially, U.N.C.L.E keeps a few buildings. They're safe. Rent controlled, even. Security at the doors, though. No view.”

It didn’t sound like the kind of place Solo would allow himself to inhabit, never mind the threat to his life posed by an enemy superpower. Kuryakin prompted, “And unofficially?”

Solo grinned. It was quite the thing, being known. 

“I quite like the Village,” he said. “You should come by sometime. I'd love to have your opinion on the light fixtures.”

It broke Kuryakin, that. 

That Solo could be so willing to return to friendly relations when _this_ was where they’d gotten him? It was an unwarranted gesture, a thing of charity where none was deserving. 

None, save, for if Solo was agreeable to keeping his offer for a short time only. Time enough until Kuryakin found his end. With that in mind, Kuryakin drew a breath that rattled his heart. He professed a quiet fear that, whether he was discovered along this journey or merely accused of it, later, he would be known as an agitator. And Siberia was full of agitators.

Solo observed the moment of silence Kuryakin retreated into at the mere thought of following in his father’s footsteps, of being labeled a traitor and being unjustly punished for it. A moment, however, was as much as he could allow for Kuryakin to suffer.

He hummed, thoughtful. 

“Interpol was on my tail for four years,” he prefaced. “Did you know that, for eight months during that time, I worked for several police departments in Wisconsin, as a sketch artist?” 

Solo’s smile was not its usual brazen self, but soft and small. It was a gentle memory he'd settled into: the quiet little life he'd lived on the edge of a lake, teaching himself to fish and genuinely date a person--two activities he tired of quickly. 

He continued, “That stint was… conveniently left from the history they took, the breakdown of my activities and dealings. What I’m saying is, who knows? This may embarrass them enough and you may get lucky.” 

Kuryakin took in another uneasy breath. “Luck is American invention.”

“Lucky I’m here, then.”

When Gaby awoke from her nap, they changed positions. Kuryakin--knit cap obscuring his hair and coat collar drawn up--kept watch as they drove through empty country cut with forested terrain. In the remnants of a severe thunderstorm long passed--entire trees broken in bitter halves, limbs bare, the earth rendered anew underfoot--they readied to spend another uneasy night on the ground, drawn close around a small fire. 

It would be their last, given the time they’d made and distance traveled. Kuryakin believed they’d cross into the town where his aunt lived by midmorning. Though, it was not in the plan for Kuryakin to travel those streets, personally. 

The shattered trunks of trees the size of gods, while at first daunting, came to resemble the small branches stacked for their fire. Beyond them, the forest felt like a graveyard. Before them, a small sacrifice was made. Kuryakin stood momentarily, looking as though he meant to run off and join those more like himself. If he disappeared into the forest, Solo thought as he stared up at the figure Kuryakin cut against the night sky, he'd quickly come to belong there. 

But Kuryakin only wandered as far as the car, checked their supplies, and then returned to sit amongst his friends. 

“Daria,” Kuryakin said, accepting an open can of preserved pear slices from Solo, taking a slimy half, and passing the rest along to Gaby. “My mother’s sister’s name. My mother--Yeva--used to call her Dasha.”

Gaby smiled encouragingly, but knew better than to think Kuryakin was treating her to idle conversation. These were simple things she’d need to know, little facts for her arsenal in case Dasha was discerning enough to question Gaby’s story.

“She had greyhound dog. Ugly thing. Probably dead. If not--looks that way.” 

Solo listened, watched their conversation slide back and forth easily. Gaby had accepted a great deal of the risk of this, their shared exploit. Kuryakin's removal from the process was reasonable enough--he was not meant to be in the country--and Solo would be cause for concern, too. A strange American asking questions would arouse immediate suspicion and distrust. People would talk, and somewhere along the line, someone of some importance would be listening. Alternatively, a tiny German girl speaking intermediate Russian would be harmless, if not a breath from _darling._

Among the broken trees and moss-soft earth, the three felt they were afforded a strange new protection. When Gaby voiced as much--a simple, _I think I’ll sleep better tonight_ \--Solo glanced to Kuryakin, his thoughts with their distant surveyor. 

Despite this, when morning came, it was as though none had slept at all. The task ahead of them loomed too large, infiltrated their dreams and made rest an impossible ally. 

Gaby changed outfits in the car, abandoning her simple tapered slacks and shapeless sweater for a pleated navy shirt, a grey overcoat, and for a pop of color, a dusty pink collared shirt with a pattern of flamingos on it. It looked--to Solo’s amusement--how someone from behind the wall dressed when trying to conceal that fact from others. She let her hair down, combed it with just her fingers into something a shade above presentable. She rendered herself into the wide-eyed girl they’d corralled into their first mission together, slight and pretty and in search of family. 

It was an old story, but it was theirs. 

Because Kuryakin himself could not risk being seen, Gaby left him and Solo in an abandoned horse stable some twenty-minutes outside of town. They agreed that Gaby would break from her search every two hours and return to check in and share her progress. It hedged on conspicuous, but Kuryakin reminded them both they did not know what they would find here. His aunt or not, her loyalties could have shifted over time. 

Solo did not want to say, but he believed it to be unavoidable: the woman had lost her sister to the same cause her nephew had dedicated his life. If her loyalties did not have all the consistency of a mudslide, Solo would have been shocked. He could only hope she carried the softness of heart Kuryakin’s mother did, and that she might feel pity for the man before she felt the coldness of her loss.

Gaby left with their reassurances and Kuryakin’s handgun. 

“I’ve got one,” she protested, indicating the small revolver in her coat pocket. But Kuryakin insisted, and closed his hand over hers over the gun. 

“Revolver is to kill. Mine is to _threaten_ to kill.”

It pained him not to give her more--at the very least, promises of his proximity, and all the strength, tenacity, and skill that came with it. But she’d never needed those promises of his, not really. Solo knew as much, and in lieu of deadly weapons, only shared his confidence in her abilities. He gave her arm a slight squeeze when he leaned in, pressed a kiss to her cheek. 

Hers was desolate work ahead; she’d know that for herself soon enough. 

“From behind the Wall,” she said, repeating a mantra she'd kept for herself. 

“By way of America,” Solo added. “And with the world at your back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! Some angst, and some uplifting nonsense before we GET RIGHT BACK TO ANGST WHERE WE BELONG. Next chapter will be the last!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lengthy delay! This is the last instalment of the story, and I hope it provides a satisfying end. A million thanks to everyone who has read, left comments and kudos, and generally kept this behemoth going. I appreciate the encouragement tremendously. :)

The town--overlooked by the industrial boom in recent years--wasn’t much to explore. It occupied a smudge of cleared earth, though very little beyond it still found cause to grow. The city center was composed of a few prominent shops--auto repair, a grocery, butcher, and general store--and Gaby saw about the whole of it from her little blue car, itself seemingly cloned in varying shades of brown and grey, and littering the side streets. She bypassed all that, and settled first on a string of far-away homes, the likes of which appeared older than the established town itself. 

She was cautious in her search, only speaking with individuals one-on-one, should the prospect of discussing a disgraced Party member’s wife prove too taboo. And to that end she set for herself a speech and made certain never to deviate. It was simple and forgettable, a mere inquiry after a woman who came from this town, who had left for Moscow and married. 

And she finished, always, with an airy rendition of, _“Yeva Kuryakin, I think, was her name?”_

Gaby felt her Russian was, at least in this small segment, strong enough to avoid doubt or outright questioning. But her words were less important than the single utterance of that name, and the look--or not--of awareness, slow to boil, but sure as anything when it reached people's eyes. 

The townspeople were neither knowledgeable nor talkative, and in that sense, unreceptive. Gaby was not surprised, and in truth was not offended. They were only cold in the way Gaby had been, herself, faced with strangers in such a secluded area. In her case, Gaby felt more than a little vindicated: all the strangers she'd met were spies. And even as she took pains to obscure any hints towards her German nationality, and never once gave a name--false or otherwise--Gaby felt nothing like a spy in this capacity. As a spy, she had clear objectives, a means to meet them, and backup. 

Here, she was chasing after ghosts, and her backup was purposefully denied to her. 

Twice she'd traveled back to the derelict stable to check in. Met with prolonged failure, Solo and Kuryakin nonetheless kept their faces blank. But Gaby knew they were quickly losing hope; the same pit had formed in her own stomach, heavy but empty, a great drum into which she'd put so much, only to see it drain away as their plans remained unmet. 

On the first house in her third two-hour stint, Gaby knew she was nearing an end to new faces. She resolved to start over, to press harder on those who had dismissed her inquiry after perking towards the name. They couldn't know how far she'd come, or all that was dependent on her finding answers, but they would come to learn that she was serious. Kuryakin's pistol in her purse was a reminder of that.

Her next attempt was on an older woman who had hardly opened the door to Gaby at all. It was of no matter; Gaby dove right into her speech. 

“She left--for Moscow--and married. Yeva Kuryakin, I think, was her name?”

Gaby awaited the first denial and subsequent brush-off. 

Instead, the sliver of a woman seen through the crack in the door inched closer. “Why do you ask of Yeva?”

Gaby was momentarily thrown from her game. In one second of hesitation, the door drew further open, and a lithe creature, its face long and proud, fit itself between the woman's left leg and the doorframe. A greyhound, Gaby realized, and was sold.

“I am a friend to her son,” she said, her Russian spoken in slow, careful bouts. “We were once engaged.”

It was her first misstep, she realized, and above all a rookie mistake--why give the truth when the ring was heavy on her finger? Why loosen their ties when stronger ones promised greater pull? But it had long been on Gaby's mind that there was a chance Kuryakin's aunt knew her nephew well, and would sooner question a lovely fiancée than an attempt at one.

Gaby stared at the woman, and saw something more damning than even the greyhound: a pained look, long-worked into her features so that every inch of her was tinged with resignation. It was the face of so many Gaby had known in East Germany, whose families had been split by the Iron Curtain. This woman held a similar loss: all that was taken from her was collected--and collectively ruined--under the banner of a cause she'd believed in just the same as anyone. 

Gaby drew in a sharp breath. She'd never had any intention of being overwhelmed by her own discovery, but here she was, struck with the possibility of gifting Kuryakin a greater thing than he'd ever known: resolution, if not peace. 

“Are you Dasha? I've been--oh my goodness--looking for you all over town! I wasn't certain--!”

Dasha hushed her. She was an older woman living a quiet life, and the harried excitement of another was enough to threaten all that she'd managed--though her wits and unwavering determination--to keep in her care. She sighed, and in the same breath stuck out a foot to hold back her dog and opened the door wider for Gaby, who entered the small home with assured steps. 

Before doing anything else--even speaking--she prepared tea. In eternal use, the kettle was already filled and sat on the stove. Dasha twisted a broken knob for the gas line, then collected beautiful blue teacups--one at a time from the overhead cabinet--and finally, retrieved a yellow tin. From it, she carefully scooped loose leaf tea into little mesh sacks. Gaby was reminded of the tiny fragrant soaps of Kuryakin’s mother’s design; the beauty in her frugality was unmistakeable. Gaby knew the impact his father’s crimes had on Kuryakin and his mother--the poverty, desperation, and shame they wore closer than even their skins. It was no great stretch of the imagination to presume the fallout was felt far and wide, touching the innocent no matter the distance.

Though the small house was drafty enough to prompt her otherwise, Gaby slid her coat slowly off her shoulders. She hardly felt welcomed so much as purposefully hidden from view, but the task was before her now--finally. A masterwork of her own creation, Gaby knew she had assumed an enormous responsibility, and that it was far from realized. Finding the aunt was easy; securing her trust was the true challenge. 

So she stood in the kitchen, coat folded over her arms, not willing to tempt a conversation after being so resoundly shushed. The dog--all sinewy muscle stretched over long limbs--sniffed and heavily breathed at the hem of her skirt, as if it was trained to seek out contraband. Uninterested, it loitered off, its toenails skittering like rain across the floor. 

They were seated in silence. Gaby waited until the woman had lifted her teacup to her thin, colorless lips before speaking. 

“I know it's been so long since you've seen him. Illya.” It was the first Gaby had spoken Kuryakin's name, unwilling as she was to even give voice to his presence in the country. But here was her chance to strike a blow through any foggy memories and ardent denials; there was no time for half measures. Gaby had to act. “I have a photo, if you'd like--?” 

The old woman set down her tea, nodded. She seemed to be holding her breath. 

Gaby found she was doing the same.

Gaby brought her small purse to rest on the table. It was nothing like the stylish brands she'd had in Rome, but something more grounded, a functional piece she would have been the envy of even behind the Wall. Careful not to disturb the heavy handgun Kuryakin had gifted her, she produced her pocketbook, and from its zippered compartment, she drew a photo. 

Early in their planning, Solo had offered to sneak a photo of the pair, though the staging would be questionable--Kuryakin, his face still pulpy from his meeting with Dmitri, would not be an equal participant. More confounding still, he could not know he was being photographed. 

But Gaby dismissed the whole idea, claiming she had proof enough to convince anyone of her attachment to Kuryakin. If he was doubtful, Solo said nothing.

 _You shouldn't be,_ Gaby remembered thinking. Although he was not aware the photos had been developed, Solo had taken the shot himself with Kuryakin's own camera--lifted, of course. The image depicted just a little bit of fun seaside on the Mediterranean, a brief respite from their mission in Istanbul. Kuryakin was dressed in a loose linen shirt, his khaki pants rolled high enough to escape the sands, but too low still not to be soaked in just a few feet of water. Gaby--clad in only a white bikini--was wrapped around his back, her arms cinched at his neck, head thrown back in laughter as Kuryakin threatened to walk further out to sea.

His mouth was twisted up in a bit of wry satisfaction, but his eyes were soft. He was looking back at Solo, Gaby remembered, who had taken Italian fashions with him and dressed scantily, even for the beach. His little black trunks had worked to scale his round ass and, failing that, hugged his thighs for dear life. He cut a quite the figure, and Illya's eyes were hardly alone in finding him for a pleasing sight. Even for not being in the picture, Solo’s presence lingered. 

While Dasha studied the picture, Gaby studied Dasha. Tall and slender, she held Yeva’s resemblance, save for her darker coloring. It was Yeva, the golden child, who’d married well and gone to Moscow. Yeva, who’d suffered her husband’s shame. Yeva, who’d lost her body and health but never her spirit. Dasha was the sister who stayed, who had everything, save for her heart, that very part of her torn out and crushed with the departure of Yeva.

“My,” Dasha whispered, “He has grown.” 

Her narrow fingers moved over the photo as if to brush Kuryakin's windswept hair into submission. Gaby smiled.

Dasha recalled the young Kuryakin as prideful and sensitive, and it cheered Gaby to hear it.

"That hasn't changed," she said, her Russian more confident in her capacity to make a joke. 

She took a sip of her tea, found the taste surprisingly sweet and fragrant. Gaby supposed she’d imagined something dark and bitter to mirror Dasha’s existence. 

But this woman wasn't that, Gaby realized. She was lonely and more than a little heartbroken for it, but she had treasured blue teacups and a beloved dog--far more substantial things than hope. And yet, the photograph gave her that much. The troubled little boy she only knew from a few visits and, then, her sister’s seemingly endless stream of letters, was now someone capable of friendships and romances. It was well beyond what Dasha could have imagined for him.

Gaby felt a new kind of terror touch her soul--the daunting fear that she'd done something terribly wrong in sharing Kuryakin's fate. Even this, a manipulated version of his life skewed and softened by Gaby's own telling, was so much of what Dasha had been sorely missing. What if Dasha thought he was happy? Gaby could not conceive of a greater lie, and it concerned her to be the one telling it. 

When she next spoke, her words were enveloped in genuine unease. “He doesn’t know I’m here,” she lied, “But. He speaks so fondly of his mother and only recently learned she had passed. I wonder… if you might know where she had been laid to rest.” 

Dasha said nothing, only moved her hand to rest on the narrow head of her dog, who'd come to beg for scraps at her side. 

“He’d have wanted to come himself, but his work, you know.” Gaby steeled herself; alluding to Kuryakin’s position in the KGB could win her a few points or lose her the game. She tightened her smile. “It’s very stringent.”

Dasha nodded slowly, hearing what it was Gaby could not say. “All this, and the boy is not your fiancé?”

The words were there, but it was no genuine question. Gaby had won her gamble. Perhaps Dasha had heard as much from her sister or knew it for herself: what others had seen in Kuryakin's unease and hesitation--and generously misnamed as prudishness--she saw as a struggle carrying on namelessly in the boy’s heart. 

“No, but. He is my dearest friend.”

They sat in silence until Gaby’s hand slid across the table to retrieve the photo. Dasha looked away, as though embarrassed she'd been so moved in the first place. That the man was her nephew Illya was undeniable--he had the same light coloring as his mother, the same angry little line forged between the brow. 

But Dasha only remembered the little boy, his hand forever grasping for that of his mother, his hair moppish over a lovely face, angular even in childhood. The man in the photo--large, composed, a genuine presence--was so far removed from the memory of her sister that Dasha wished she'd had more time to study it. But what could she say to her young visitor, his beautiful girl who had not given so much as her name, but still finessed her way inside Dasha's own home? _Please, miss, allow me to wallow in the past just a moment longer._

Gaby went for her purse again, and Dasha thought she meant to stash the photo. Instead, she retrieved a pen, clicked it once--a sound that carried through the small house like a shot--and steadied her hand. 

She marked out her own face. 

“For you,” she said, returning the altered image. “I want you to keep it.” 

The gesture gave away more than Gaby had ever intended. For one, there was no more solid indictment of her knowledge of the world--and indeed, her place in it--than obliterating her own face from a seemingly harmless vacation snapshot. The act branded her as more clever, more shrewd than her sensible shoes and flamingo print blouse could ever hope to hide. 

And even Gaby's effort to deny her part in it could not assuage the risk Dasha took in accepting the gift. If discovered, there would be questions. Nothing the KGB could prove, of course, but proof had never been a necessary component in doling out justice. And the lack of it would not negate any forthcoming punishment. 

But it was nothing short of miraculous: evidence of a piece of her sister, still living and breathing. Better still, he was out in the world, achieving things for his own and not wholly for the glory of the Party. 

Dasha accepted the gift, and silently promised to treasure and protect it for as long as she lived. 

Then she stood. 

“Come. I will show you.”

They donned their coats. The dog whined in an effort to be invited along, but Dasha murmured a command and the creature relented. Gaby was ahead, the offer of her car hot on her lips when Dasha caught her by the wrist and held her back just shy if the doorstep.

“Wait,” she said, and Gaby worried the woman had come to her senses and lost her resolve for the task. She looked at Gaby, her expression hard, searching. Never before had Gaby felt scrutiny like hers; even when first roped into the plots of America and Russia, their respective agents saw and liked her, but remained oblivious to her intentions. Dasha knew to look for just that. A woman could be kind and good, but none of that meant she wasn't capable of egregious acts and profound deceit.

“You can trust me,” Gaby said--another misstep. There was no promising one’s honor to another, and anyone who took a stranger for their word did not survive long in this world. “Please. For his sake.”

Dasha's grip on Gaby was like iron. Gaby hadn't thought Kuryakin got that from his mother’s side, but here was proof enough. 

“Will you tell him it was not his fault?”

It wasn't a demand Gaby had expected to hear, but that her response was immediate--at least--gave Dasha the impression that it--unlike Gaby's clothes and ruined little car--was not so meticulously planned. 

“I've said as much in every way I know how,” Gaby swore. “You can guess how well he takes it.”

“The boy will listen to his mother,” Dasha decided, and left the room. 

Gaby's heart was pounding in her chest. She could feel how close she was to the final discovery and bringing Kuryakin to face it. She did not want Dasha to step out of her line of sight, but she couldn't take her captive, either. That was more Kuryakin's game, and if Solo were here he'd undoubtedly charm her into complacency. Gaby had already used her trump card: sentimentality. 

Dasha returned with a shoebox under her arm and a scarf drawn over her head and wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She was still intent on leaving the house and leading Gaby-- _somewhere._

She pressed the box into Gaby's hands. 

Gaby--suddenly fearing the prospect of turning Yeva Kuryakin's ashes over to her son--felt her stomach drop. 

“What…” 

Inexplicably, she felt tears jump to her eyes. Leading her friend to some begotten grave was trial enough, but to present him with _this,_ under the pretense that the man’s mother had undoubtedly passed hands with so little care that she ended up so readily available, was unacceptable. It was no less a thing than an outright assault. 

Her stomach turned at the thought. There was no right way to present the truth, and he’d never look at her the same for it, would never hold her hand again when she reached for it. What if their friendship could not sustain the blow? 

Gaby could have blamed any number of things for her poor showing--lack of sleep, constant travel, and a weak diet--but nothing was more pronounced than the heartache she felt for her friend, and the dawning realization that Gaby herself may be the one to deliver still more troubling news. 

She set the box on the table and traced the lid with her fingers. Holding her breath, she opened it. 

“Letters?” 

Her nerves were so shaken, Gaby had fallen back into her native German, where the sounds and movements were warmly familiar. 

Dasha spared her an inquisition, and reiterated in Russian, “Yeva’s letters.” 

When they left the small home, Gaby felt the sting of cold air against her eyes. She burrowed deeper into her coat, as if there was any difference to be made.

\- 

While Gaby had gone to search the town house by diminished house, Solo and Kuryakin shared space in a dilapidated stable on the outskirts of town, with only one another for company. It was a situation Kuryakin had lobbied against at every opportunity in the past weeks since his inadvertent betrayal of Solo’s privacy. Alone, together, he was at more of a disadvantage. 

He'd always liked this best. 

Solo’s company felt refined in and of itself. His silence was polished by jazz albums turned low, or the softened pages of a book, turning methodically. Food was always cooking, the smell always pierced by the sharp scent of Solo’s preferred cologne. Kuryakin could play chess amongst it all and not feel disturbed, his place somewhere near to Solo’s until their intellectual pursuits were spent, and all that made sense was to find one another's bodies. 

Conversations held the greatest deviation: some were sparse--only a couple words over an entire evening--and others carried well through the night and into morning, or were returned to days, weeks later, like a favorite tune. Yet, Kuryakin could not pull lines of speech from Solo, as if his thoughts were finite. There were many people--spy and not--who only had so much to say before revisiting the well. 

Solo, while always quick with a comeback, provided something new every time. Warped perspectives informed by his own life, sometimes, often times still he returned to classic systems of thought he and Kuryakin would at least ground their more absurd conversations in. And Kuryakin could answer or not, perhaps even delay his response until after a meal or an hour in bed. He never felt faulted for it, or deemed lesser. 

Like Kuryakin, Solo appreciated his partner’s silence, too. More than even their conversations, it was when Kuryakin said nothing--only favored him with a look or invited a touch--that they'd well and truly heard one another. 

Kuryakin did not feel their circumstances as quiet, now. He felt they'd been deafened. Any words they shared were garbled, and it was Kuryakin's own doing that had leveled the blow.

A slow, sparse rain began to fall.

The stable was a small fixture, completely lost to time and the elements. There were two empty stalls and a cordoned off segment lined with shelves and drawers for the keeping of horse feed and grooming products. It would have made more sense to stay in the accompanying ranch house, were it not blackened and stripped to its bones due to a fire some years back. Solo could see it from the stable’s rear window, which was little more than a hole. Its glass pane had been pilfered, and the piece of plywood drawn over the opening was turned to rot. 

With each gust of wind, the whole thing quaked. 

“This is a terrible place to have grown up,” Solo observed, staring out in search for what would count for the city’s skyline. There was little more than a grain silo visible from their distance, and even then the rain muddled the view.

Kuryakin frowned. Rather than join Solo at the window, he kept firm to at least the _notion_ of hiding, and was sat low on a stool. “This is marsh.”

“Simply dreadful.”

“I did not grow up here,” Kuryakin protested. “Nobody grows up here. Is marsh.” 

“Oh, but you look right at home,” Solo drawled, and turned to gesture pointedly at the miserable look on Kuryakin's face. 

“Moscow was my home. I lived with every luxury, then with so few it seemed a punishment to have ever known them at all.”

“Now, there’s a line about that I think you’ll find amusing--”

“Russia is my home,” Kuryakin said again with no scarcity of force. The longer the thought weighed on him, the more it turned from inescapable fact to acceptable burden and--finally--to privilege. If his hands were not already balled into fists and searching for warmth deep in the pockets of his coat, the gesture would have surely found him twice over. “This is not how I should be returning--denying my name, my place.”

Solo was not so easily swayed. He crossed his arms and looked upon Kuryakin warily. “Come now, we’ve all done it.”

Shame colored Kuryakin’s face, and he turned his head to avoid making himself a spectacle. “I am being selfish.”

“That’s not fair of me to say,” Solo said, waving a hand. His weren't cold; he wore gloves religiously, it seemed. If not for cracking a prized safe, then perhaps in anticipation of getting the chance. “We both know where we’re going when we’re finished here.”

He said it--they both knew--to get confirmation. But Kuryakin, perhaps in an attempt to lower expectations or to dissuade Solo of such illusions, denied him that much. He breathed not a word of future prospects, much less if he believed there were any to be had.

“You speak so flippantly,” Kuryakin mused, and chased his words with a cloud of hot breath. “But it is true. I am finished here.” 

Solo was returned to his fixed interest in the empty view. The greys and browns bled into one another, denying individual distinction and worth. He found it strangely comforting. 

“What were you like when you were young?” He asked, then smiled to himself. With his hardened stare and fatalistic moods, Kuryakin seemed to defy distinction as youthful, despite all the evidence to the contrary--his good looks and healthy vigor. Solo corrected, “Young _er.”_

Kuryakin did not care for this line of questioning; it was derivative and pointless. Solo had already read his file, knew Kuryakin’s turbulent upbringing, the suspicion cast upon his character, and all that he’d done in an attempt to reverse it. The only blessing there was that Solo seemed to have learned more than he’d cared to, and his curiosity had been sated. 

But even Kuryakin knew better than to think Solo would be content with what was handed to him. A thief never is. 

And because he had a way of getting things from Kuryakin--whether Kuryakin answered, and especially if he did not--Solo was again victorious. 

Kuryakin said, “Being young is solemn work.”

“Is it?” Solo couldn't help but grin. “Were you? Solemn.”

“Weren’t you?” Kuryakin spat, quick to turn the tables. “Only child. Run off to fight a war.”

Solo tutted at the insinuation. “Doesn’t make me solemn. Makes me foolish.” 

“You’re still that,” Kuryakin shot back. He watched Solo watch the landscape, where nothing stirred. They were far from where geese cried overhead and deer cheated the morning of its silence. 

Inexplicably, Kuryakin did not want to be associated with this place. Even for his mother’s birthplace, he did not know it. 

In his chest, Kuryakin’s heart felt like it breathed and moved against a mound of grit. It was a slow-moving terror, because Kuryakin finally had a thought for how he saw himself. 

“I was very happy.” 

Something like disappointment washed over Solo’s face, softening the hard line of his brow. But for what else might have been there for Kuryakin to see, the beard swallowed up. “I thought so. When you smile, it’s like you’re remembering how.” 

“I smile like child,” Kuryakin parsed of Solo’s comment, and was displeased. 

“It's a good thing,” Solo told him, though his teasing was evident. “Very dear.” 

Kuryakin snapped, “You smile like animal. With the throat of your prey broken between your teeth.”

“Well,” Solo began, and wasn't so quick with a response now, because in truth Kuryakin's outburst had startled them both. “There’s beauty in brutality. Of a sort.” 

The rain picked up, battering hard across the tin roof of the stable like it mean to beat a hole into the material and pour down to meet them. It was loud and, for a moment, Solo and Kuryakin were quiet. 

Solo looked beautiful in the rain. It was hardly so bizarre a truth now, for as often as Kuryakin happened upon it, but it never ceased to startle him out of complacency (as if the elegant suits and military-precision of his pomade hair were so commonplace in this world). Now, with the wetness in the air infiltrating their tiny structure, his hair curled and fell heavily over his brow and his skin first paled, then glowed luminous. In another life, Kuryakin thought Solo could remake himself into a movie star, all charm and good looks and particular talents. Like Gene Kelly in the movie they’d watched. 

Solo spied Kuryakin staring and brought a hand to sweep his hair back into place. 

Kuryakin--suddenly standing--caught it. 

After a sharp intake of breath--Solo’s--Kuryakin’s long fingers peeled away from Solo’s wrists and dropped, a small note of contrition for his presumption. He looked to the ground, eyes locked on the very place he’d been sat and should not have leapt from. 

Solo did not appreciate looking disheveled, and though Kuryakin’s first real viewing of such a state was after Solo had been mercilessly tortured, he wanted to compliment him now, and somehow find the words to convince Solo that it was _fine, he_ was fine. 

But the words scrambled in his mind, and Kuryakin defaulted to talk of the mission. 

“What will you do after this.”

When he glanced to Solo again, curious for his answer, Kuryakin could only see the wayward curls the man had refrained from tidying. They cast shadows over his left eye, and pointed toward the beginnings of a smile from his cupid’s bow mouth. 

“Honestly, I'm not thinking much beyond this afternoon.” Solo admitted, his tone purposefully blasé. Then, like he had a glass of decade’s old scotch in hand and little care for that, either, he said, “When you ask things like that, it gives the distinct impression you’re after something you're expecting to miss.”

The self-assurance was profound; Kuryakin should have known better than to think _it,_ of all things, would not go into hiding. 

He looked at Solo, knowing no other way around it. 

“They have not contacted me, either. If they get wind of this, they will.” He bowed his head, the weight of his own misdeeds too great to even allow him to sustain eye contact. “It will make up their minds. Then I will know. Will they kill me? Will I go to Siberia?” His chest drew in and out fast, but the breath was soundless. He was still staring at the place he'd been sat, but his gaze went further, sank deeper. “I hope they kill me.”

It was, Solo knew, no small defeat that Kuryakin had returned to that end. And though he shook his head, dismayed with Kuryakin's choice, even Solo could appreciate it was still the lesser of two evils. He'd fraternized with the enemy, previous. Now he was distinctly disobeying orders. The latter was leagues beyond the former, no matter the circumstances. 

“I'm going to the beach, I think.” As usual, he spoke with every assurance that his notion would come to fruition. Never mind his words--his very _manner of speaking_ dismissed everything around them: the distances they’d traveled, the risk they’d all accepted. For Solo, imagining a happy end was like singing opera in a wind tunnel; it only sounded natural to the performer himself. 

He continued, undaunted, “Sea-green waves, clear waters, white sand.” 

He could practically see it: candy-colored little beach houses, great shady palms, and the bronzed, bare legs of a thousand beautiful patrons--Kuryakin's own among them. Solo had to grin, imaging those impossible legs spilling out from a high-waisted, yet deceptively short red swimsuit, a much-welcomed fashion of the time. “You're welcome to join.”

Although indistinguishable from Solo’s many other flirtations and taunts, Kuryakin was nonetheless blindsided by the comment. With the hard look he served Solo, the American wondered if he’d heard something entirely different. 

Kuryakin had a sudden way about him, an intensity that rolled through his shoulders and tip-toed up his neck and through his jaw. He shifted, moved as though he meant to make an equally brazen remark. He got as far as opening his mouth to do so, but the words stopped at the backs of his teeth, collapsed, and fell away. He buried the sentiment like a little death. 

Of course, nothing got past Napoleon Solo. 

“And suddenly you’re disciplined,” he said, his tone jocular and pitched high as though the concept alone deserved an audience to look up, gape, and marvel at it. Kuryakin let the humor fly clear over his head and accepted the slight. 

“None of this would have happened if I had been.”

“I know,” Solo agreed. He again turned his gaze out the window, towards the distant strip of road. “It’s a terrible thought.”

Kuryakin had nothing to say against that. There was no known part of him that disagreed. 

If it showed on his face at all, Solo missed that particular victory. His thoughts were with the patchwork road, on taking it south and never looking back. They had not spoken of it, but he had no doubt Kuryakin had imagined a future in Solo’s past.

“Can I tell you a thing or two about running?”

“It's great fun,” Kuryakin guessed dryly.

Solo smiled wide, but only for the sake of it. The expression that came to settle on his features was something like resentment, like the lust he had for heavy meals when his suits were all tailored trim. 

“That, certainly. But there's always something catching up to you. Maybe not the authorities, maybe not even your worst enemies. You get homesick. You can go anywhere, do anything, but it’s everything else that occupies your thoughts. Friends. Routine. There are things you want to do and they _consume you,_ absolutely. But so does the chase.”

Kuryakin could have sworn he'd been staring at the ground, and not the perfect little crease between Solo’s blue eyes. “Would you ever do it again?”

Solo looked at Kuryakin like he meant to give the man his whole heart. “Of course.” 

The rain began to dissipate, easing over their structure while great bands of it headed west. It cleared the skies of heavy cloud cover, but the dull grey coloring remained like an overlay, something Russia was partial to when the rest of the world welcomed great blue expanses. In its absence, Kuryakin could hear his own thudding heartbeat. He was again struck by the words he'd wanted to say, but the prospect frightened him now more than ever. Solo could talk circles around plans for week-long escapes into paradise, but being on the run wasn’t like that for him, anymore. It was an ugly practice, because he knew the game for something short and--until it was over--profoundly lonely.

And yet, he’d put himself back in it, so long as he was at Kuryakin’s side.

“Cowboy…”

Though they didn't hear the car pull up, Gaby's double honk was unmistakeable. They left the safety of the stable and joined Gaby where she'd let the car roll to a stop slightly off the dirt road. It was not yet time for her third check-in, which meant she had either made progress or encountered some danger.

Gaby was spared Solo and Kuryakin’s shared indignity of pink cheeks, lips pressed and red. Her coloring helped, but by in large it was deemed so by her time in the car and the alternative they occupied: abandoned to the elements. 

She looked stricken all the same. When Solo and Kuryakin met her at the car, they both saw the small box that hadn’t been there, previously. But all Gaby did was move it from the front passenger seat and into her lap, giving no explanation.

Solo was sat beside her and from where he sat in back, Gaby could feel Kuryakin's breath on her neck. Neither commanded her attention above the road ahead, and when she finally spoke, that was where she directed every part of herself. 

"She's not far from here." 

-

They drove around the town and then for another thirty minutes, stopping when the road became nothing but dirt and a great, sweeping field of tall grass and purple thistle rose to greet it. There was complete silence in the car, such that even the engine seemed to have quieted itself.

Kuryakin was last out of the car. Neither Gaby nor Solo had expected that. They followed Kuryakin at a distance, Solo with his hand on the gun in his coat pocket, Gaby with her arm drawn through the one he offered her. Gaby spoke sparingly, saying only, _Just up ahead. To the left. Just there._

On the ground, a thin layer of frost was salvaged from the rain and met by the cold. Their every step was remembered by the earth, including Gaby and Dasha’s own, from only an hour ago. The graveyard was nothing formal, only the necessary means of dealing with the aging community in both Yeva’s hometown and two others nearby. The thistle bloomed there, too, like the cold was of no consequence. 

There wasn't any thistle on Yeva Kuryakin's grave. Though there was only a simple stone marker and a bit of grass resettling the surface, and looked as quiet a scene as any could be imagined, it was nothing shy of an atrocity.

The second it registered for Kuryakin what he was looking at, he turned, unable to stand it. In a fit of rage so tremendous it could only exist in a vacuum of silence, he dissociated. It was a thing to behold: Solo, who'd seen Kuryakin start fits and end them, likened it to the gapless playback of film reel. Kuryakin was still himself--somewhere--just between the scenes of carnage. 

He uprooted a tree and hurled it several feet into a ravine.

Then, breathing heavily, he took labored steps towards the little grave. Only when he had come to a distance to again read it did he drop to his knees and bend forward, compelled, hunchbacked as if in prayer or--

Or grovelling. 

Face planted flat in the dirt, Kuryakin screamed. The sound moved heavy through his chest, was low and eerie like an animal’s. His was a feral call pitched to hell, and in its sheer power, seemed as though it could tear straight through Kuryakin’s chest to get there. Rather than fade, the cry broke like a promise.

Like _No one will ever know,_ or _Your country needs you,_ and _I’ll see you again soon, my beautiful boy._

Gaby was first to his side. For a time she did not touch him, only stood next to where he had fallen. Her shoes disappeared into the fresh dirt of another grave. Her fingers grazed his shoulder, just the tips over rain-spotted leather. Then, she spread her hand open, took as much of Kuryakin as allowed by her grasp. It wasn’t much, but--it seemed to hold him up, _sustain him,_ when he would sooner sink like water into the earth. 

Solo kept his distance. What existed between his partners was--still--a kind of longing. Gaby, for what could have been, and Kuryakin, for what ought to be. It was a more furtive and enduring practice than love-making or physical cherishment, the latter which was something Solo thought-- _he worried_ \--was all he could give. Because when he offered truth and understanding, it was like he’d loaded a weapon, and Kuryakin was smacked with the recoil. 

It afforded him an immeasurable guilt, that every prize he shared should turn sour for the both of them.

Gaby had been Kuryakin’s first friend, his ideal. She had strength and wit and self-determination--all things that she, as a woman from behind the Wall, faced every obstacle in obtaining. Yet she had all this and more in droves--grace, beauty, empathy, and when all that failed, a deadly sense of justice. 

Solo did not know that he matched her, having been something else to Kuryakin before he was a friend. An antagonizer by design, and something still of a thief. He’d seen his prospects before recognizing the potential. It was simply his prerogative; as sure as he cased every room for its exits, he saw an opportunity in every slinky goddess stricken to earth, every mountain of a man born from it. 

Possibilities, all, but he rarely considered the extent. It was how he was able to move through the world unbound and rootless, and with less carnage at his feet. Despite his pronouncements, Solo did not know if Kuryakin’s side was truly his place. He brought with him every complication, every fear, and every threat. There would never be the freedom to be seen and known as Solo so desired, the kind of life he could find with a woman. 

And there was still a chance, however slim: in five years, he could be sat in a little cafe in London, making room for a woman who dressed in the finest fashions, who loved adventure but was content to find it within the boundaries of the law and the lines of her continent. They’d go to the beach, fine restaurants, museums. She’d find it charming how Solo would sometimes smile fondly at a painting, like it was an old friend. She’d just laugh when he couldn’t explain it. He’d settle for purchasing a print in the gift shop. 

She’d never have to know. 

_More lies,_ Solo knew. Lies and deceptions for the rest of his life. He’d skirt reality, always.

He spied Kuryakin’s hand in the black earth, noticed it shaking as if cold. 

_I work better alone. He works better alone. Or so he keeps telling me. It is not my place._

The hand flexed, searching.

 _But it could be,_ he thought, and stepped in.

Kuryakin remained on his knees, trousers soaking against the damp, cold earth. He looked like a man starving for answers that might bring him peace. His hands were open, fingers uselessly spread. And there was nothing extended to him; he was pleading substanance from dirt and air, from ghosts. 

Solo did not put an arm on his shoulder like Gaby had successfully done. Rather, he stooped, but only so far as to curl his hand under Kuryakin’s arm and bring him upwards. 

_Stand,_ he silently willed of his partner. _She would not have wanted you to kneel towards despair. She never did._

Kuryakin turned his head and stared at Solo, his face red from his broken scream. His brow was furrowed and his lips slightly parted as though he was of a mind to reply--as if he’d _heard_ Solo. Tears sprang to his eyes and he raised a hand to rebuff them, in turn leaving streaks of black dirt across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

(Solo would only come to clean him hours later, stood roadside while Gaby made a pit stop, with a handkerchief and a moment of privacy.) 

He stood, finally. First with help and then on his own, though neither Gaby nor Solo ever broke contact. They kept like battlements where Kuryakin had been felled. 

Kuryakin stared at the grave and then its surroundings. It was quiet, at least. And had he not uprooted the nearest tree, it would have been shady during spring and summertime. Far away from the town, the site denied any passersby, because none would come across the place unless driven by purpose. 

Here, his mother would not be disturbed by greedy viewership, as she had while she was still among the living.

It wasn’t a particular happy thought, but Kuryakin had no other alternative. This would never be a place he could visit regularly, even if by some miracle he was forgiven for his trespasses. And the singular horror of losing his mother to such a foreign place brought with it reinforcements: the smearing of his reputation, the lost claim to his home, the butchering of his heart. 

Time fell away from him like skin from a rotted fruit. Overhead, sunlight was bleeding heavily through far-away treetops as evening approached. Kuryakin’s slight turn towards the car was resolutely mimicked by his companions, neither of whom had not once tugged at his sleeve or bid him an early departure. Rather, they’d stood on the same cold ground as him, and paid their respects. 

Where Kuryakin did feel hands on him was when Solo opened the car door for him and gently maneuvered him into the backseat. There was the strong left hand spread over his back, guiding him, and the gentle right still holding Kuryakin’s own. Solo had removed his gloves--Kuryakin hadn’t noticed when--and what he felt was skin-on-skin, calloused palms touched to the smooth, refined instruments of Solo’s better trade. 

And when they finally broke apart, Kuryakin was left to his own. There was no better or worse moment, then, for Gaby to have given him the shoebox.

In the box he found a series of letters written by Kuryakin's mother to her sister. Some were old, written when Kuryakin was just a boy and every letter was a testament to whatever darling thing he’d done recently--when he got a puppy, beat his father at chess, showed promise in school. The only ills spoken of in the letters were the occasional upsets Kuryakin faced with the other boys, how he didn’t seem to get on well. When he made his first friend, the letter sang the sweet little boy’s favors. These, Kuryakin remembered. 

His mother had often shared the letters with him, asking if there was anything he'd like to add before they were sent. Kuryakin found his sole additions: a mention of a thunderstorm, written in his own hand, and a drawing of a rabbit. The little design had its place at the bottom of a letter dated the spring he'd discovered an entire family of them living near the crumbling boarding house in which they shared a single room. Yeva never wrote of her husband’s sentence to the gulag, though mention was never made of him again. 

The letters took a ten year gap, then picked up as if they’d never stopped. Yeva never wrote of what it was she did to survive and, again, Kuryakin's accomplishments took top billing. He was doing great things for his country, and still playing chess.

And then--her illness. She wrote about constant pain in her stomach, a lump in her side, bleeding that spanned days. She wrote of being so tired she couldn’t eat, and so hungry she couldn’t sleep. She wrote these letters like the diary she knew better than to keep in her own possession. It had to be made piecemeal, then scattered. Her sister became its sole recipient.

Though he was rapidly losing light to read by, Kuryakin took up the last letter and read from its end: _I know death has visited often, traced my body at night. But I cannot concede my time just yet. I’ve written to Illya hundreds of letters. It is my greatest fear that he is dead and I have not known. My beautiful boy._

He set aside this treasure, unable to bear the letters’ words any longer. His vision blurred, his heart broke. There were no tears, just a deep and abiding hurt too profound to comprehend.

Lost under the bundles of paper was a tiny soap, nestled warmly in a mesh bag, still holding faintly to its scents of lavender and honey. Kuryakin cradled it in the whole of his hand before bringing it near his nose to smell. Then, he continued to search every corner of the box for the rattle he'd heard when Gaby trusted the thing to his care. And again, his entire being seemed to stall--to suddenly _cease to be_ because at least that was easier--when he uncovered his mother’s wedding ring, taken off the day her husband was sent away to Siberia, but never pawned. Like the watch Kuryakin kept to this day, it was too precious a thing to ever part with, and well worth the number of hungry nights it may have undone. 

A low whine escaped him. It sounded drawn, unnatural, a creak from weathered materials. 

Ahead of him, Solo and Gaby were whispering. Though they did their level best to keep quiet, there wasn't space enough in the car to keep Kuryakin out of the loop. 

_Back the way we came,_ Solo insisted, while Gaby shot back, _It isn’t wise. Didn’t you ask him--?_

Their whispering came to a raucous end with Gaby shouting _“Shit!”_ and Solo throwing an arm back to keep Kuryakin from hurtling forward as Gaby slammed the breaks. 

A woman was standing in the road. 

With a ravine on one side of the roadway, and creeping woods on the other, there wouldn't be any going around her. It smacked of purpose and planning.

Gaby threw the car into reverse while Solo readied his gun. It would do to ride around with two bulletholes through the windshield of the car, so Solo decided that--if he had to--he'd make the shot in one. 

In the pitch black night, reversing for long would prove a challenge. If the woman signaled herself for a threat, Gaby knew she had to abandon any scruples she might have about driving on ahead, plowing through any obstacle. 

“Wait.”

It was Kuryakin who spoke. His voice was thin, having not yet rebuilt itself. He secured the shoebox under his seat and moved to abandon the car. 

“Our tracker?” Solo guessed, but Kuryakin didn't answer him. To that end, Solo did not lower his weapon. He gestured for Gaby to keep at the ready, then left the car to ensure Kuryakin was covered. 

For an added bonus, at least his shot would be clean. 

The woman cut a strange figure. Stood in the bright beam of Gaby's headlights, she looked ghostly, a singular vision backed against a blackened sky and empty scene. Although she hadn't, previous, Gaby spied the motorbike parked some ways behind her, evidenced by its exposed metal pieces and chrome detailing. 

She was light in her complection, so much like Kuryakin that Solo could have mistaken the two for family. He stood promptly before her, however, like a subordinate to a superior.

Older than Kuryakin--older than Solo, perhaps older than the two combined, even--her lips were tight and corners of her eyes, loose. It was a face that could not agree with itself: age or severity. Still, her pale coloring afforded her a breath of beauty, but the battling swathes of light and dark obscured her features, leaving her luminous and eerie.

“I've thrown them off your path,” the woman said, her Russian short and precise. “But you can't go back this way. Head east.”

“They know I am here,” Kuryakin supplied. Fear, initiative, vengeance--all were stripped from him. He spoke only in flattened tones, dulled with the realities he'd finally come to accept. 

“They only suspect. There is no proof.”

Solo glanced from the woman to Kuryakin. Here was proof enough: visual confirmation from an individual high enough on the KGB food chain that she should have means to know that Kuryakin walked the earth with a target on his back. Solo liked the idea that Kuryakin might yet have a friend in the organization, but still had his doubts. Beyond the initial bomb of his mother’s fate, she’d only told them what they’d already known: _the Russians are coming._

Her hands opened slightly at her sides--like a shrug, misplaced and contained elsewhere in the body. Not a muscle of her moved, otherwise. She said, “It's of little comfort, I know.”

Kuryakin seemed more satisfied than Solo--where Solo heard admissions and saw shrugs, Kuryakin heard a promise to run interference, and felt the phantom touch of her hand.

“If I see you again, Illya,” she stopped short.

He said something to her--neither Solo nor Gaby was in a position to hear. Their meeting ended with the woman’s gloved hand on Kuryakin’s side, his own on her shoulder. It could hardly be mistaken for a hug, but Solo could not find another word for it. At the very least, it was a goodbye. 

Kuryakin stood ahead of the car to watch that she rode off on her motorbike successfully. When he returned to the car, Gaby turned around in the driver’s seat at once, and faced him plainly. 

“Illya. What do you want to do?”

She was asking if he wanted to run.

Kuryakin knew this, and knew Gaby and Solo would join him if that was what he wished to do. They had not discussed plans for returning, and perhaps this was why: there was never any intention of letting the KGB ruin Kuryakin. If they were intercepted on their journey, they would run, if they were followed, they would divert course. They would essentially abandon their identities, to live as Solo once had--under suspicion, their respective agencies hot on their heels. There would be no rest, no long dinners or sleepy mornings in chic apartments. Freedom would only ever exist just ahead of them, the breath closest to their lips but furthest away.

It was no way to spend a life, but they were spies, anyway--the lives they lived were hardly their own.

Kuryakin grimaced, as if the notion had been under his nose since the beginning, and was slowly beginning to rot. Gaby’s career was just starting, and Solo’s sentencing was coming to an end. It was only his own that stood to lose continuity. Previously at the height of his career and leading in his field, Kuryakin had always had everything to lose. 

Such was why, he realized now, he'd been incapable of taking the initiative, of starting into his journey on his own. 

Within U.N.C.L.E, Gaby could do great things. And if there was even the slightest chance Solo’s plan to discredit the photos could work, Kuryakin could not sully it with a questionable disappearance. They'd taken him this far; he could not run them to ground.

He said, _Home._ He said, _New York._

If he was to die for his misdeeds, he would be among friends. 

-

Kuryakin did not remember their lengthy drive, this time to neighboring Georgia. He did not remember the three different flights or the taxi ride through New York. Even when he opened his eyes to it, or presented his fake identification at various checkpoints, it all seemed to be happening to someone else, a figure like his own but wholly unknown to him. Kuryakin felt like a distant observer of his own skin, and he found himself wishing the masquerade could last forever, and he could sink away, wash his hands of all that he'd become and start anew. 

The only thing that felt real to him--finally--was the hand on his forearm, and another at the small of his back, guiding him to bed.

Solo had taken them to his new apartment in the Village. There, Kuryakin slept without end, and Gaby joined him in bed. She'd done more than her share of the driving, and even the various flights, remained alert. None but Solo had manage to doze fitfully over the Atlantic. 

Solo sat up, kept watch, and read Yeva’s letters. Kuryakin stirred, once, and saw him reading. He didn’t put a stop to it.

Solo hadn’t shaved yet, and the near-week’s worth of growth was substantial. The beard afforded his face severity and with it, a kind of alien new beauty. It was only right that his magnificent jawline was not lost to anything less; a few wispy hairs and patchy appearance would have been a grave disservice to its host. Instead, he looked older and distinguished, and Kuryakin could not help but think, _What a way for Napoleon Solo to hide._

When Kuryakin awoke fully, he had Gaby’s knees pressed against his back, and her nose lost to his hair. She was a fitful sleeper, but Kuryakin kept still all the same. From Solo’s bed, he had a clear view of the doorway--by design, no doubt--but he did not need to look so far. Solo himself was sat, loosely drawn ankle-over-knee, in his favored wingback chair. Kuryakin remembered when he'd first seen Solo in it, so composed and cool in the face of Kuryakin's simmering hysterics. He registered nothing in particular, now, only the man’s form punctuated by his slow breathing.

Solo saw that Kuryakin was awake. He smiled sympathetically at all the things Kuryakin could not see: his own weary expression, unwashed hair spilled over his brow, and his blue eyes, rendered grey in the darkness of the room. 

Soundlessly, Solo left the chair for the living room, and did not have to bid Kuryakin to follow. He did so immediately and without question--a pious man answering a silent call to prayer. He closed the bedroom door behind him, separating himself and Solo from Gaby, who continued to sleep. Kuryakin did not know it--lost as he had been to his own all-consuming despair--but she had kept vigil over him at every juncture of their journey, and held their escape together by its very edges. 

The living room, in contrast with the cool blues of Solo’s bedroom, was done up in warm rose-colored walls and the gold-tinted light fixtures he'd been so fond of. The pink was not to Solo’s tastes, originally, but he'd come to like it. 

Curtains were needlessly drawn over a set of blinds, Kuryakin noticed. He felt the hour--midday--on his skin, as if the sun had infiltrated the apartment all the same. He normally would have felt ill, sleeping so late. But after days--weeks, _months,_ \--of his nerves coiling tight and blowing apart, he’d exhausted himself. Looking back on the last twelve hours, Kuryakin knew he’d needed them.

Only, at least when he was spent and running on empty, Kuryakin could not feel the full weight of his discoveries. There was nothing in him for such insurmountable pains to grab onto, consume, or otherwise occupy. It could only follow him, biting at his heels like an angry shadow, until he’d laid himself to rest and every hurt, lie, and torment settled into bed with him. There was no escaping it, now.

Solo sat himself on one side of his couch, expecting Kuryakin to join him. Kuryakin kept erect, and spared a moment to examine the books on Solo’s shelves. His tastes had drifted towards Kuryakin's, marrying the classics with pulp in his collection. Around the apartment Kuryakin saw fewer of the personal touche. The Roman busts hiding knives, Ming vases, and the like were absent, either discarded or merely unpacked. It gave the impression Solo did not feel much at home here, his second choice, a place born of necessity and unease. 

Then, Kuryakin surprised them both by first sitting, then slumping, and drawing his head into Solo’s lap. Positioned so that he saw the whole of the living room and Solo’s knees before it, Kuryakin was still, and silent as death itself. 

With a touch gentle enough to be mistaken for absent-minded, Solo stroked Kuryakin's hair.

They remained that way for some time, with neither man seeking conversation, only solace. When Kuryakin did speak, it came from a lonely place, his voice bereft of feeling and short of use.

It struck him---and as all revelations proved, poorly timed--that Solo was always and ever listening, hearing, and answering for those things Kuryakin would rather not say. 

To whom did he tell secrets before Solo? What would become of a heart that did not open to others?

Kuryakin said, “You are very far from beach.”

“It'll keep.”

Then, without warning, Kuryakin sucked in a sharp gasp of air, and buried himself against the soft of Solo’s thigh. He bowed his head like there was any hiding in this. He bit his lip and choked back a sob, but Solo felt it rattle through Kuryakin's middle, and echo through his own body, after. Solo had felt an earthquake before--in Hasankale, 1952, back before the CIA had so much as a whiff of him. As it was then, so it was now: the quake inspired fear, the aftershocks carried terror.

Solo couldn't recall what he'd been doing in Turkey at the time--specifically, what he'd been stealing--but he remembered why he'd left. Everyone was so frightened, so anxious for every subsequent rumble of the earth. There was simply no getting a deal done.

Solo waited, but never felt the hot stain of Kuryakin's tears through his trousers. 

All those months ago, Kuryakin had indeed cried upon learning his mother had passed. He did not do so now; it was hardly new information, that she'd been dumped in a grave, spilled over with dirt and forgotten. 

It did not hurt Kuryakin--so much--to know that people were cruel. 

Solo disappeared his whole hand into Kuryakin's hair, and moved the other to rest on the man’s drawn shoulder. He felt as though he was adequately positioned to contain Kuryakin’s heart, should the thing spill out in pieces. 

“She was sick,” Kuryakin said, words riding the breathy back of that withheld sob, “Heartache. It was their fault. They killed her. And I was accomplice.” His hands dug deep into Solo’s flesh, relented, and dug in again. “They have taken the whole of my family. Why? We are not many.” 

Solo said nothing, having realized very simply that these were only the words Kuryakin needed to hear, himself. 

For his own, Kuryakin's weight was a welcome distraction, and no matter the circumstances, Solo was glad to feel it again. He could not lie to himself about what he wanted--sooner or later, he always struck out to find it. A beautiful painting or a stolen kiss, there was little distinction in his mind. 

“Her last letter. Did you read?”

“Yes.”

“She thought me dead,” he spat, then slowly shook his head. He’d not received a single letter from his mother, just word from his superiors that she’d received _his_ letters. 

“Why?” he asked again. Still, the question was useless. “She had every kind thing to say of me. She believed in what I was doing.”

“You made her proud,” Solo agreed. He’d had his turn with the same slick gameplay during his stint with the CIA, and he knew all too well what Kuryakin would have to learn for himself: someone, somewhere, was able to find cause for this behavior. It became policy, a strict line when the lives of agents were inconsistent and stirred with beating hearts. That it made little sense or even seemed counterproductive was of no importance; there wasn’t a thought spared for Kuryakin, personally.

And though the idea was a grand departure from all that he knew, Kuryakin was warming to it. 

“I have come to question… who stands behind what I've done. And I marvel… at the ease with which I choose a new enemy, and accept my old ones for cheerleaders.”

“I can tell you now, I don’t have the legs for a skirt.” Solo bowed out of the genuine conversation, the one he'd instigated a hundred times before--about country and loyalty. He'd never really expected to hear Kuryakin echo his own doubts. It made him uneasy, hearing denials from the sweet spot in his lap. 

While Solo strayed from giving outright praise, there were honest things he could say. Words that meant the same all over, sentiment that had no homeland. 

“And you’re _so wrong_ if you think you did any of this easily.”

“Shouldn't it have been harder?” 

Solo wanted to say that Kuryakin had lost his heart over this matter--would it have only hit home if he'd lost a limb, too?

Kuryakin read the tension in Solo’s body and quieted his protests. He tried to relax, to dig into the warmth he'd sorely missed. Solo’s was a presence beyond description, distinct in a way Kuryakin believed singular in all of the universe. He was solid and formidable, yet his touch was light as air. And for all his constant pronouncements--loud clothes, wandering eyes, an overly eager smile--he could be as quiet as the dead. 

Kuryakin curled forward, like he meant to reach out and rein in that thought, take it under his grip and crush it. 

In the arch of his back, Solo imagined a bridge between two worlds. 

“If you defect, they will kill you.” Solo remembered when he'd goaded Kuryakin into talk of such a thing, how easy it was to get his face to flush red and his hands to tighten into fists. It churned Solo’s stomach, now, to take a colossal step back and encourage strategy and patience. Russians weren't wily by any stretch, but it would do to adopt that old American standby--the hedging of bets--if it promised Kuryakin's survival. 

He continued, “Talk to Waverly. A formal transfer to U.N.C.L.E will protect you, and help the KGB save face. The photos--my face, never yours, remember? They were still protecting their asset. They know what you're capable of and don't want you for an enemy.”

When he'd practiced the words earlier, mapping them out in his mind, he'd done so with a clear view of Kuryakin sleeping soundly in his bed. Solo had balanced these words on eyelashes, stretched sentiments from cheek-to-cheek. He imagined which would hurt Kuryakin less, only to have gone with those he needed to hear.

“Is not worth it,” Kuryakin replied after a too-long spell of silence. “If you cannot do the same.”

His weight--once so welcome and formidable--now made Solo feel weak. “I will endeavor to try.” 

Solo wanted to say more. He clung to those moments when he could, when talking to and teasing Kuryakin were one in the same, and the man gave just as much back. Now, Solo felt each word out over his tongue, against the slick backs of his teeth, testing its merits. There was so much between them now--too much--and to muddle through the heartache and betrayal for a joke would surely leave him breathless.

But he'd do it for a smile. 

“I meant what I said. If it's a question of hitting the road… Illya, it is no question.” 

He felt Kuryakin squint his eyes against his leg, a strange sentiment to be felt through his trousers, it was all the same reminiscent of more gleeful times spent there, with Kuryakin making sense enough of Solo as he did his own self. Solo could still hardly comprehend all that he'd experienced at Kuryakin's presence, hand or mouth, the ways and means by which he'd felt terror and heartache as sure as ecstasy and unparalleled thrill. All were unmatched by any partner, any lover before him.

He wasn't the most naturally skilled, but he worked. He listened. He delivered. There had been kindness spent over hunger, delight exchanged for peace. Where would Solo ever again find someone so willing to make such a heartfelt trade?

Solo continued, “I'll pack your bag again, even. I was thinking Prada, head to toe. But if you'd rather go without, I can assure you that hiding amongst a nudist colony has its charms.” 

He got his smile. 

Activity across the room robbed each man of the other’s attention. 

Gaby appeared at the bedroom doorway, chin up, fitting an earring into one ear while simultaneously digging through her purse for the other. Her hair was combed into a messy ponytail, but she was clean and fresh from a shower taken the minute they got back into the city. Kuryakin--already asleep in bed--vaguely remembered the shock of a warm, wet body. At the time, he'd raised his head and looked around blearily, expecting Solo. 

“Did we wake you?” Solo asked, if only as a thing to say while Kuryakin lifted himself up and away from his lap. Solo imagined it was only good manners--to rise to attention when a lady entered the room--but experience told him Kuryakin was still wary of discovery, new forms and old. 

Gaby didn't bother to even pretend to look scandalized, and continued smearing a bit of concealer under her eyes with a practiced hand. 

She'd dressed in the remaining outfit from her duffle: a chic little suit in a brazen Pinot red. Hardly a thing to wear on the run, it spoke to her foresight: Kuryakin would never threaten their lives in service to his own. From the moment she'd begun to plot their way into Russia, Gaby knew they'd be returning to New York. She’d planned to dress for the meeting she'd take with Waverly, subsequent to all their cheating U.N.C.L.E protocol and bypassing international borders. 

“No, but I should be going.” She turned, used the reflective base of an ornamental bowl to check her lipstick. “No doubt Waverly knows we’ve gone a bit off course. I’m not sure if he’s aware we’ve circled back.” She fit the second clunky earring in and fluffed her fringe. 

_Details,_ Solo mused, and he believed her when she turned, dropped a hand to rest sharply on her hip, and said: “I’ll take care of things.”

Solo tapped on his cheek where a spot of rouge had gone awry on hers. 

“You always do.”

Kuryakin stood, approached Gaby as she continued to ready for her departure: she slid into her overcoat and drew on a caramel colored scarf, a luxurious and heavy thing pilfered from Solo’s own closet. Kuryakin enveloped her hands in his, stalling her. His cold hands made for a grip like ice. There was a half-formed crack about letting Gaby get her gloves on, first, but neither jumped to make it.

The gesture was premature, as Kuryakin was at a loss for words. Gaby did not feel denied; she knew them. 

He bent low at the knees so that he could press a kiss to her cheek--their first. 

Although Kuryakin finally clinched the deal, it was Gaby who came away from the exchange with a wry look of triumph. 

“You’re welcome,” she said. 

-

There were flower boxes hanging on Solo’s apartment windows. They held long, drooping ferns and the odd, hardy perennials--white yarrows and fat, pink bleeding hearts. Kuryakin did not notice this until he left the building some days later, with Solo by his side.

-

Solo’s trick to entering buildings was to walk right in like he belonged there. Such a task was difficult when the building in question had two doormen. Even with a stolen key, he would remain suspect. 

Still, it was no difficult thing to spy on and case an elderly woman in the building. He targeted her on her weekly grocery run, intercepting her two blocks back to offer a helping hand and, in turn, taking the elevator up with her as they chatted amiably about the weather and her grandsons.

He'd arrived late in the afternoon, however, and his prey--there was simply no other name for it--wouldn't make his way in until well after eight. It gave Solo plenty of time to explore the man’s empty apartment.

With exceptional space and detailing, the place itself was not unlike what Solo knew some CIA agents and informants to have acquired for themselves: lush and modern, teeming with fine art knock-offs and _very real_ bottles of scotch and _very illegal_ boxes of Cuban cigars. He came away youth a few interesting documents, too. 

But that was child's play; his first order of business was to find and misplace every stashed weapon. 

There were no children, housekeepers, or dogs to concern himself with, which was a relief. 

There was a wife, however. And two mistresses. 

But Solo had planned accordingly, and placed a false call from a police station claiming the wife’s brother was in a holding cell upstate and required bail. She'd left twenty minutes prior for the bank and, from there, to Syracuse.

The mistresses were easy: he’d played one at a bar the night before, charming her and lifting the necessary apartment key from her purse. The second mistress, well, was taking too long. He simply introduced her to the first.

Solo made himself comfortable--smoked a cigar and pocketed two more--while he waited. And when his target arrived, Solo afforded him nearly an hour to get comfortable, to mutter to himself between drinks, and otherwise indulge in the royally mistaken belief that he was alone. 

Solo existed at the very edges of the man’s attention, and worked himself closer so that he might take in and appreciate what it was he'd come to do. 

The man was balding, had yellowing fingers from a smoking habit, and chewed at the cigar in his mouth with over-white and over-large teeth, themselves damn near a distraction. Perhaps worst of all, his untamed waistline ruined the fine cut of an otherwise _gorgeous_ blue Brioni suit. 

And if that had been his only crime, he'd still deserve what was coming to him.

Solo chose his moment wisely, stepping out of the shadows and into plain view just as the credits began to roll on _Monday Night at the Movies._

The man jumped, scrambled for a gun that wasn't there. He swore, lobbed threats he couldn't possibly make good on, then descended into a whole--rather demeaning--routine about taking what was valuable and getting out, _no need to involve the Police, no need, right, buddy?_

He'd taken Solo for a common thief. 

Frankly, Solo was hurt. 

He spread his arms wide as if to present his whole self for inspection. Solo hadn't been lying to Victoria Vinciguerra when he'd said he didn't wear masks while stealing things. He didn't wear them while intimidating villains, either. 

Though, it couldn't be blamed that the man only had eyes for the two pistols Solo held, both outfitted with rubber silencers. 

“What, don't you recognize me?”

-

The office was a gleaming white, so much so that it seemed to deny light and shadow coming through the broad wall of windows, and rendered the space otherworldly. It was more to the coming style, Kuryakin knew, though he hadn’t expected Waverly to be so taken with trends. If it was any consolation, the man still kept his expansive collection of tea caddies stacked behind a hotplate and kettle. And with the scents of lavender, cool mint, and warm spices settled well into the furniture and carpet, there was no mistaking Waverly in the space. He permeated it, always. 

“Things will change,” Waverly told them in no uncertain terms. It was all he'd said, and kept it for the last second of the fifteen minutes he'd kept the threesome in his office, standing patiently without so much as the offer of a seat or a drink. He was tightening the leash they'd all been under the impression wasn't really there.

“The more things change,” Solo chimed in.

“I would think you of all people, Mr. Solo, should not want to finish that sentence.” 

His charming accent and lively tone were undercut by the fine line of his threat: for this tremendous breach of protocol, there was reason enough for the CIA to tack on a few years to his service. All that remained to sway Sanders’ favor was a word from U.N.C.L.E. to downplay the whole ordeal. And so far, none was promised.

Waverly’s last word--a crisp, _“Good work in Kazakhstan, of course.”_ \--hit their backs as they filed out of the office. 

“I could use a drink,” Gaby muttered as soon as they'd cleared the reinforced glass door of Waverly’s office. They were still in earshot of his secretary, but the sentiment was hardly anything she'd never heard before. 

“I could help you with that,” Solo said, and the pair hurried in the direction of his office. Kuryakin--who had a standing invitation--was sidelined by a pretty secretary bearing a phone message and a firmly worded reminder that she was not _his_ secretary. 

The message was such that Kuryakin did not know it from an innocent case of mistaken identity or a death warrant. 

_Your friend Tom is in the hospital. He'd like to see you._

There was an accompanying address and number corresponding to a private room. After some quiet deliberation, Kuryakin armed himself heavily, and went. 

When he returned to U.N.C.L.E headquarters within the hour, Kuryakin made a beeline for Solo’s office and, once there, locked the door behind him. 

“Dmitri has no teeth.” 

It was an observation as mild and cool as if Kuryakin was discussing the weather. 

_Dmitri has no teeth. Looks like rain._

“How did you find him?”

Solo gave a crooked little smile and started to prepare the drink Kuryakin had missed out on, earlier. “You gave me his name, remember? Might as well have been a hand drawn map.”

“Cowboy…” 

“As for his teeth, he still has them. Swallowed, probably well into his small intestine by now.” Solo poured a second helping of scotch for himself, too. Kuryakin's was noticeably more substantive. “Shall we drink to it?”

Perhaps too quickly, Kuryakin accepted.

“You did not kill him,” Kuryakin said, raising his glass. “Here’s to avoiding international incident.”

“Going soft?” Solo asked, his grin only disappearing so that he might take an equal sip along with Kuryakin. It returned to him just as quickly as it had gone. “Or perhaps you’re just thirsty.”

Kuryakin's open expression drew fast to a close. He'd admittedly enjoyed seeing Dmitri harbor the kind of pain and humiliation he'd doled out to Kuryakin, but there was no denying it was an act of aggression in a war that had gone cold. 

Solo downed his drink, then hummed appreciatively at the burn. “Nothing yet?”

Kuryakin shook his head. He only continued to sip at his helping. He wanted to feel warm and come undone, like he had so often in Solo’s presence. 

“No news is good news…” Solo mused, but conceded, “Or no news is, they've been plotting your assassination all along and, surprise, it'll find you any day now.”

Though he was playing on what neither knew for _irrational_ fears, Kuryakin had come to accept the futility in his ceaseless worrying. He threw back his scotch and held out the empty glass. “Thirsty.” 

Glad for their combined effort towards levity, Solo smirked and poured him a second.

“How are you sleeping?”

The question came rushed, though no less practiced.

“Alone. Dryly. Quietly. Which is it you're after?”

“Quiet,” Kuryakin said. Even loosened by alcohol, he was firm in this.

Solo gave a flirtatious smile--a little number that started with a dropped shoulder and pursed lips, a whole teasing aura to speak to how _touched_ he was that Kuryakin's interest was wholly innocent. 

“You know, Gaby thinks Waverly was putting it all on a little thick, anyway. That there had been hopes to bring us all completely into U.N.C.L.E for some time. As ambassadors, of a sort.”

“Whatever is decided,” Kuryakin said, his voice suddenly small, “Is well beyond me.”

“Well. Can't blame a man for wanting to tip the cosmic scales a bit.”

“Is that what Dmitri was?” Kuryakin asked, and was momentarily thrown by the hardness in Solo’s stare. 

“No, Dmitri was personal.”

Solo sat on the edge of his desk, and gestured for Kuryakin to make himself comfortable. Kuryakin genuinely tried.

He sat in the center of Solo’s couch--a quietly bold move, should Solo join him. He glanced to his left and saw the city bathed in sunlight. Adjacent buildings glittered under a blue sky that held promise of the coming spring. There was a section of park to be seen--just a sliver, wedged between buildings near and far, and further edged out by construction on a penthouse--that was coming up, out from under winter and slowly becoming green again. 

“You have not… sought me. In weeks.”

“It’ll be two weeks this Thursday,” Solo said, striking the dramatics in half. Although he knew Kuryakin had closed and locked it behind him, Solo glanced to his office door all the same. “I wasn’t sure where you stood on those matters. It’s an open invitation.”

They spoke without seeing one another. At least for a time, it felt safest. 

“I suppose… if the request to transfer…”

“Really does wonders for a man’s ego to know he’s on par with _paperwork._ ”

“I will not again risk your life for my petty needs.”

“And what of my petty needs?” Solo left his desk and came to stand by the window. He took in the same view as Kuryakin, and then waved his hand to it--New York City, America, beyond. All the world they'd seen, its dark harbors hidden amidst ample beauty. “All that? For nothing?”

“Not nothing.” Kuryakin looked at the carpet under his shoes--oxfords, same as Solo’s, though he couldn't for the life of him remember when that had happened. “I know you are… genuine. Genuine friend.” 

“You knew that before.”

He did, but it was never a thing Kuryakin felt he could know enough--the lengths Solo would go, the distance he’d travel and things he’d lower himself into so that Kuryakin might know a shred more kindness than was ever shown to him. It was intoxicating, a thing with such a profound view Kuryakin wanted nothing more than to fall in. 

But he drew back into himself, and spoke to the circumstances Solo had found him in: “There was nothing good about me. Everything… was wrong. And I led them straight to you. Put your life in danger only to have you turn around and throw it ahead of mine.”

“If it had been the other way around,” Solo said, his voice a cool balm on a thought that burned Kuryakin raw, “Would I deserve any less?” 

Kuryakin had stopped himself once before, bit his tongue until he tasted blood, but the words found him again, fought through his every shred of self-preservation, and made themselves heard: “Do you love me?”

It was nothing short of an accusation, a near affront on Solo’s character. _Could_ he love-- _did_ he--and _Kuryakin,_ of all people? A hardened killer by trade, when Solo had to be blackmailed into the same? Naturally conspicuous, when Solo valued tact beyond all else? The human embodiment of a nation at such profound odds with his own, that their televisions, newspapers, and leadership each spoke with such vitriol so as to deny the other’s very humanity?

Kuryakin pressed, his resolve thinning but the words spilling forth as if on the back of a flood. “Is that why you behave this way? So--resourceful? Always with answer. Always have reason to find me again.”

Solo’s eyebrows crept upwards as Kuryakin spoke, but collapsed into a knitted line over his brow once he'd finished. Solo promptly poured himself another finger of scotch, drawing it to his lips as he hurried through a reply. “That's something of a loaded question--”

Kuryakin stood abruptly. His own glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor, but its loss was registered by neither man. “Then I ask again. Do you love me?”

In the breath of silence that followed, Kuryakin could swear he heard Solo’s racing heartbeat. 

“You know, it’s a distinct possibility.” 

Solo’s mouth had gone dry--Kuryakin could hear that, too. He said nothing in response, only stared, wholly invested on Solo’s next attempt to dodge him.

“Honestly, Illya. I don’t think I’ve considered things along those terms. Love and--not, I suppose.” A small smile crept into his features, warmed his cheeks and touched the corners of his eyes. “You may really have something there.”

Kuryakin made a face, like the air he'd wasted on even speaking of these matters with Solo could never be regained, and he might as well _suffocate_ for the distinct crime of seeking honesty from a conman. 

“I’m being genuine,” Solo pressed, claiming Kuryakin’s word for his own use. Then he laughed to himself, said, “I remember thinking for the longest time that, somehow, what I have with you might very well save my soul.” His face opened up and he smiled as though he'd told a great joke. Kuryakin only stared, hungry for an explanation.

“Never mind the sentence for my crimes, or even the work we do for U.N.C.L.E. I think if we had met on the street or waiting on a subway platform somewhere, I would have followed you. And you’d have led me to this distinct…” Solo shook his head, searching for the word, _“Place_ where someone's asked something of me, and I'm floored by the consideration.”

Kuryakin did not understand the idiom-- _floored_ \--but there was not a word spoken in the last ten minutes that he would soon forget.

“It isn’t of any matter… if I attone. If I do good.” Solo watched Kuryakin's hands flex unnervingly at his sides as he listened to Solo’s spiel. “I think I _am_ good. For you.”

Solo’s world-colliding fantasies were well and good, but Kuryakin could point to a dozen things their involvement together had sowed, and Solo alone had reaped. 

“I think you are better. Without me.”

Solo smiled, blinked a few times too many as if struck by sand and confused. He looked away. “Well, you’ve been mistaken in these kinds of things before.” 

His hand found his glass, but the thing was empty. His grip tightened nonetheless. 

“My… question.”

Solo looked into the glass, saw traces of amber liquid he could suck down like a fish, were he desperate enough. He pressed his lips together--denying himself that--and when he opened them to speak they were cherry red. “Personally, the notion strikes me as a choice. _Will I?_ ” 

He’d been stalling long enough, and summoned the brazen smile Kuryakin deserved of him. 

“I think I’ll have to sleep on that. Care to join me?”

Kuryakin was crushed. No denials or commitments, only wordplay. Kuryakin suddenly did not care, he only wished he had not broached the subject. The truth--and Solo surely knew it without Kuryakin's exhibiting it for him, now--was that he'd take anything. 

A fond farewell, even. Just so long as it was that--fond.

“Yes,” Kuryakin huffed, embarrassed for his own heart. “Of course.”

Solo heard resignation in the sentiment, as if Kuryakin only knew love as a cause to surrender himself to, something greater than himself, and a thing in which he could be a mere small part. It was an intoxicating notion, Solo knew, to be the divine figure in that fixture. If he wanted it, Kuryakin would forever orbit him from a distance.

There seemed no greater offense to impress upon Kuryakin now than that, and Solo was sickened for having imagined it. 

“Illya,” he gave a weak smile and hoped it reached his friend. “You understand, don’t you?” 

He did not. Solo wondered how he'd ever fooled himself into thinking Kuryakin was on the same page, let alone in the same book. There were oceans between them, still. Things Kuryakin could not conceive of, and still more that Solo could not temper himself so as to justly explain. 

As with the horrors enacted on Kuryakin's family, here was another injustice meant for the man alone: he was not given to visions of his own worth. And it _was_ a gift, one which Solo had in spades. For Kuryakin, whose sense of self was derived from his status in an organization that benefitted from his belittlement, there was no understanding what Solo was telling him. 

Kuryakin and Solo simply did not speak the same language.

In that moment, Solo conceived of a plan the likes of which would make Gaby proud. For the time being, he simply smiled and raised his glass. 

“It’s quite alright,” he said. “I’ll see that you do.” 

-

Complacency was not a state of being Kuryakin would return to in short order. But he had a sharper appreciation for odds, and driving through some desert Texas town put them well into his favor. 

The sky and ground were a beautiful pair: ice blue and tarnished gold. Kuryakin appreciated the uniformity. He found his attention drawn to the horizon and the patience both entities had, in existing in tandem but never quite meeting. A blur of grey ran between them, evidence of the small part of the world humankind had taken for its own. It reached higher and dug deeper, but in the end there was only a line, minimal progress for all the colossal effort.

It was a relief, really. 

_Safe_ wasn't so much a part of his lexicon anymore, but in this desolate patch of earth Kuryakin at least felt distant. With Solo for company, the two concepts were near indistinguishable.

Their mission complete, Solo sat in the passenger side and dictated directions to Kuryakin, who was driving. There was blood splattered across his sweater, soaked well into the fibers, which was a shame. Of the few flecks that got as high as his neck and cheek, Solo leaned in and wiped them away with his thumb. 

“That got messy,” Solo observed as Kuryakin swatted his hand away. Messy was an understatement. There had been county police on their tail, but Kuryakin had thrown them, courtesy of a few tricks he'd picked up from Gaby. 

“They had guns,” Kuryakin said--his usual defense. 

“I told you before we came here, everyone does.” Solo shook his head and stared out the window, spying the beginnings of a golden sunset. “It’s of no matter. I know where we can go.” 

He gave Kuryakin a look as if he ought to very well know _where._

Kuryakin tried--and failed--to resist smiling over such a simple thing. “Is long way to beach.”

“Even longer, given we’re going the other direction.”

They kept on the highway all night, only stopping once they'd crossed the state line, and Solo deemed it safe to take up in a hotel. They slept late and took an even later breakfast of waffles drenched in sickly-sweet syrup. Kuryakin only had coffee. 

Solo made off with clean shirts from a shop by the hotel, and while neither look was particularly fashionable--they didn’t even have _labels,_ for Christ’s sake --they weren’t bloodstained. 

Having made contact with U.N.C.L.E from a re-wired hotel landline, they were told to lay low until the manhunt underway for a purported _toothy American and his Communist pal_ was sated. U.N.C.L.E only had to drop a few words to allies in the FBI, but it was still a thing of some delicacy. 

It was Solo who suggested driving a short ways more towards a safehouse, and Waverly himself had commended him on his uncharacteristically wise decision-making.

“We are not going to Oden,” Kuryakin guessed. The designated Texas safehouse was in Houston, leaving the nearest alternative for Arkansas. Yet, by the intermittent directions given by Solo, Kuryakin could hardly guess where they were headed, if not simply further north into empty prairie. 

Solo only responded by rolling down his window and donning a pair of sunglasses--stolen along with the shirts. “We’re taking the scenic route.”

It was another two hours driving down dusty back roads separating green farmland from great, forgotten oil rigs and drilling equipment. They stood like immense iron horses against the honeyed morning sky, tipping their heavy heads towards to earth to feed on nonexistent grass. 

At a quarter past noon, the sun was beating down from overhead, and Solo gave Kuryakin a final word of instruction: “Just around the barn, and do be careful of the chickens.”

“Cowboy…” Kuryakin’s tone was one of warning, but he had no earthly idea what he was speaking out against. Whatever had Solo so pleased with himself, so racked with nervous energy that they hadn’t heard the entirety of a single song on the radio for as often as he flitted through stations.

Solo gave one of his too-broad smiles, the kind that ended with his lip bit between his teeth. “It’s funny. We’re in one of the few places in this world where that doesn’t sound so ludicrously out of place.” 

“Because _Peril_ gets thrown around so often.”

Solo wagged a finger in Kuryakin’s face. “Be on your best behavior, now, or we won’t be invited back.”

They abandoned their vehicle and Kuryakin followed Solo around the little barn, taking high steps to avoid the smathering of curious hens dusting the ground. They clucked and sang, and Kuryakin knew if they hadn’t already been spotted driving up, any hopes of covert activity were lost thanks to this, as sure a security system as Kuryakin could imagine. 

They hadn’t even rounded the ranch house’s side porch when a woman burst out from behind the screen door. Her hands flew to cover her mouth, then down to press over her heart. 

Kuryakin knew better than to pull his weapon. He had a feeling Solo would lay him out flat if he did.

The woman was older, very thin, with grey hair framing her face loosely and spilling over her shoulders. She wore a blue dress--an item so simple and perfect in fit that Kuryakin had no doubt she’d sewed it for herself--and, over it, an apron with a pattern of Eiffel Towers.

If Kuryakin had any doubts as to the woman’s identity, they were lost the minute she spoke.

“Napoleon?”

Only his mother called him Napoleon.

She raced down the porch steps as Solo rushed to meet her. Arms spread wide but nonetheless unable to wrap around his entire self, she compensated by burying her head against his chest. There, she broke instantly into a sobbing fit, though it was only a moment later that joyous laughter overtook her, and she willed herself away--just enough--to look at her boy, to see how he’d grown. 

When they parted, the wetness on Solo’s cheeks was not his mother’s doing, alone. His eyes were bright when he laid them on Kuryakin. A firm hand on Kuryakin’s forearm joined the effort as Solo choked back the breaks in his voice so as to make introductions. 

“Mother, this is Illya. He is… very dear, and constantly berates me about what a terrible son I am, sending you things but never visiting.”

Kuryakin’s attention snapped to his partner, aghast. 

“Illya, this is Elizabeth, my mother.” 

Kuryakin had only just laid his eyes on her again when the woman propelled herself forward, wrapping her arms around him like she’d done to Solo. It was instinct that caused Kuryakin to straighten up and allow tension to coil within his muscles, but Solo’s instruction of _best behavior_ that quickly saw him relent. 

Elizabeth was crying again when she pulled away from Kuryakin. 

Through tears and a smile as broad as Solo’s, she thanked him for bringing her son home.

Kuryakin, still without the means to fully understand what Solo had done here--what _they_ had done here--could only manage a few words in response.

“Yes. Hello.”

Solo returned to the center of Elizabeth’s world as she urged them both inside. 

Rather than shock or elation, the first thing Kuryakin felt was inexplicably underdressed. While the collared workshirt was a pleasing light blue, it proved tight at the shoulders, preventing him from buttoning it to the throat, and there was nothing for the too-short sleeves but to roll them to his elbows. He tucked its loose ends into his belted grey slacks at his first opportunity. 

He’d followed too slowly and lost the pair, though the house wasn’t so big that he couldn’t hear exactly where they’d gone. Rather than the living room--itself awash in old fashioned trends and designs, hardy and local pieces--Elizabeth and Solo retreated to the kitchen. Kuryakin’s steps became slower still, as his presence within this long-overdue reunion felt like a tremendous intrusion. And yet--

He was infinitely curious.

From the doorway, Kuryakin studied the pair. 

Elizabeth had a narrower face than her son, but the same brilliant blue eyes and soft, dark lashes to cover them. Her cheeks were high and cut like Solo’s, and though she was pretty now, Kuryakin imagined she’d once been a genuine beauty, all dark hair and ivory skin. And then there had been her son, a figure so much like herself, trailing happily after. 

In the kitchen, Elizabeth unearthed a lemon spice cake from a glass stand and lid. 

“A cake?” Solo asked, thinking that if his mother was expecting them, at the very least he’d have to modify the coming tales of expert espionage. 

Elizabeth was already gathering plates and forks. “Oh, it was for Mrs. Garrett--you remember her, don’t you? Yes. Well, she’ll be thrilled to think that I’ve gone and dropped it.” She cut a thick slice, and then another. “Please, dig in. Illya?”

She served him a plate without awaiting confirmation. Presumption and a desire to feed her company--Solo was less a shadow of her than he was a mirror. 

Solo and his mother fell quickly into an easy rapport; she had always treated her son like an equal, and he her. Their conversations were boundless. At once, Solo told her of the whole Vinciguerra affair, and did not skimp of his most heroic details. He worked in his meeting Kuryakin, but kept Kuryakin’s KGB status casually out of the story’s telling. It was of no great consequence; there was story enough to be told that Elizabeth did not want for any details. She alternatively gasped and clung to her son, as though the adventure’s end was still uncertain. 

It was a lively scene, and Kuryakin quickly found he could not be party to it. He complimented the cake and then excused himself, bidding a quiet retreat for air. Though, he never left the house. Rather, he explored the place and went in search of relics of Solo’s youth. They were not so readily apparent--there was no childhood bedroom to observe like a museum piece--but Kuryakin found other things in the lonely little house that spoke for the lives it had kept safe. 

There were photos lined along the hallway leading to the bedrooms, each elegantly framed and routinely dusted. Kuryakin stared into the eyes of Solo’s father, to whom Solo bore so little resemblance Kuryakin believed there to be a story behind it, or perhaps only a lament. Their family portrait reminded Kuryakin of his own--a little family, succinct in their roles, happy with all that they were for one another.

“There you are.” Solo sounded expectant.

“You are talking,” Kuryakin said, thinking it reason enough for his absence from the scene. Though, with no small amount of humility, he admitted, “I am listening.”

Solo moved to stand beside Kuryakin and survey the collection of photos mounted on the wall. “You really are quite the hero in her eyes.”

“You tell a fine story,” Kuryakin quipped, and left it at that.

Solo’s fingertips found Kuryakin’s own at his side. Kuryakin drew in a sharp breath, but let Solo see the thing through. Soon, their fingers were intertwined, and they--spies of the highest order, with records both as bleak and as glowing as anything imaginable--were doing no less a thing than holding hands in Solo’s childhood home.

They both listened as Elizabeth put a kettle on the stove. Kuryakin pulled his hand away and hid it in his pocket, as though it were marked. 

“Go,” he nodded once towards the kitchen. “Is special occasion.” 

“I didn’t just come here because you guilted me into it,” Solo reminded him. “I wanted to bring you here. To show you.”

“Yes,” Kuryakin said quietly. “I see.”

His gaze dropped to the floor. This was not the time. Kuryakin feared if he spared even another word for what it was he’d seen, or held Solo accountable for what he’d done, there wouldn’t be any stopping it; Kuryakin would simply have to kiss him.

It was a quiet display, but Kuryakin could not fathom a kinder exchange. In its simplicity, it was only this: a son returned to his mother, a mother delighting in his accomplishments and doting on the hulking figure of a man inexplicably brought along. All held open for him and shared for the gift it was, Kuryakin knew he looked to have shied away from it, but in truth, he’d clung desperately to its edges.

Solo clapped him on the back, a gesture that slid down to rest heavily at Kuryakin’s hip. He returned to the kitchen, picking up a rambling conversation right where it had left off. Their stories were each littered with inside jokes and entire memories reduced to a single word or gesture. 

It was well over an hour more before their chatter dissipated, and Kuryakin found himself in the company of another Solo. 

Elizabeth found him in the den, studying a painting. She placed herself at Kuryakin’s side and took in the view along with him.

“Is very beautiful painting,” Kuryakin said, for lack of anything better coming to mind. 

“Napoleon gave it to me. We share an appreciation for beauty,” Elizabeth’s smile turned small and secretive. “The Monet here is lovely, but let me show you the real treasure.” 

She took him gently by the arm and led him to the little nook she’d doubled for a library. History texts lined the shelves, and it was of no surprise where Solo’s name came from. Or the rest of him, for that matter. Solo’s name, his wit, his tactical eye and knowledge of the world had all been in development well before the war, before art became his passion and his downfall. He'd long been primed for his fantastical life, a student under the sole tutelage of his mother. 

Hanging on the wall between two heavy bookshelves was an ink sketch of Elizabeth herself on the very porch swing secured at the front of the house, a serene smile on her face and a book split open in her lap. She took the work off the wall without hesitation and presented it to Kuryakin so that he might see it--hold it--as she did: with an intimacy that spoke to shared devotion. 

Proudly, she proclaimed of the piece: “A Napoleon Solo original.”

It was heavy in Kuryakin’s grasp, but even under the thick glass and weighted wooden frame, he could see every delicate detail, exactly rendered. Even beyond the likeness he’d captured, Solo had put his whole heart into the work.

Behind them, Solo had followed. His gait was unmistakable, even on the uneven wood flooring: there was the same assurance in his steps as he took everywhere with him. He walked his childhood home like a secret weapons facility, like Roman ruins, like a grand ballroom, like a seedy bar. The same was true of the pomade hair and warm touches of cologne. All that stood apart from the man Kuryakin had come to call partner, lover, and friend was the scent of spice cake on his breath. 

Kuryakin saw Elizabeth’s reflection in the glass over the drawing. She was beaming, so delighted not only for her son, but an audience to share him with. 

Kuryakin nodded slowly, and let his gaze settle on the fine lines of the drawing. A small smile of his own came into being. 

“A Napoleon Solo original,” he echoed, feeling Solo's eyes on him. “I have one, too."


End file.
